VALLEY 


L  AVMONTGOM  E  KY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


RAINBOW  VALLEY 


"Rosemary  \Yest  stepped  aside  from  the  by-path 
and  *tood  in  that  spell-weaving  place." 
(Rainbow  I 'alley)  Page  131 


Rainbow  Valley 


BY  L.  M.  MONTGOMERY 


AUTHOR  OF 
"Anne's  House  of  Dreams/'  etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
M.  L.  KIRK 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Frederick  A.    Stokes    Company 


Copyright,  zp/p,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


Att  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


To 

THE  MEMORY  OP 

GOLDWIN  LAPP,  ROBERT  BROOKES 
AND  MORLEY  SHIER 

WHO   MADE   THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE 

THAT   THE   HAPPY   VALLEYS    OF   THEIR   HOME  LAND 

MIGHT   BE   KEPT   SACRED   FROM 

THE  RAVAGE   OF   THE  INVADER 


1824066 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  HOME  AGAIN i 

II.  SHEER  GOSSIP 7 

III.  THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN      ....  21 

IV.  THE  MANSE  CHILDREN 30 

V.  THE  ADVENT  or  MARY  VANCE     ...  43 

VI.  MARY  STAYS  AT  THE  MANSE  ....  61 

VII.  A  FISHY  EPISODE 68 

VIII.  Miss  CORNELIA  INTERVENES  ....  78 

IX.  UNA  INTERVENES 88 

X.  THE  MANSE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE     .     .  102 

XI.  A  DREADFUL  DISCOVERY 112 

XII.  AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE     .     .     .  118 

XIII.  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 129 

XIV.  MRS.  ALEC  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL    .     .  142 
XV.  MORE  GOSSIP 154 

XVI.  TIT  FOR  TAT 165 

XVII.  A  DOUBLE  VICTORY 182 

XVIII.  MARY  BRINGS  EVIL  TIDINGS  ....  195 

XIX.  POOR  ADAM! 202 

XX.  FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND 208 

XXI.  THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD 216 

XXII.  ST.  GEORGE  KNOWS  ALL  ABOUT  IT   .     .  229 

XXIII.  THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB      ....  237 


vm 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV.    A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE 252 

XXV.    ANOTHER  SCANDAL  AND  ANOTHER  "EX- 
PLANATION"     262 

XXVI.    Miss  CORNELIA  GETS  A  NEW  POINT  or 

VIEW 271 

XXVII.    A  SACRED  CONCERT 281 

XXVIII.   A  FAST  DAY 287 

XXIX.    A  WEIRD  TALE 293 

XXX.    THE  GHOST  ON  THE  DYKE      ....  298 

XXXI.    CARL  DOES  PENANCE ,  305 

XXXII.    Two  STUBBORN  PEOPLE 312 

XXXIII.  CARL  I.s— NOT— WHIPPED      .     .     .     .  321 

XXXIV.  UNA  VISITS  THE  HILL 329 

XXXV.    "  LET  THE  PIPE*  COME  ".     ...     .     .  337 


RAINBOW  VALLEY 


RAINBOW  VALLEY 

CHAPTER  I 
HOME  AGAIN 

IT  was  a  clear,  apple-green  evening  in  May,  and 
Four  Winds  Harbour  was  mirroring  back  the 
clouds  of  the  golden  west  between  its  softly  dark 
shores.  The  sea  moaned  eerily  on  the  sand-bar,  sor- 
rowful even  in  spring,  but  a  sly,  jovial  wind  came  pip- 
ing down  the  red  harbour  road  along  which  Miss  Cor- 
nelia's comfortable,  matronly  figure  was  making  its 
way  towards  the  village  of  Glen  St.  Mary.  Miss 
Cornelia  was  rightfully  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott,  and  had 
been  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott  for  thirteen  years,  but  even 
yet  more  people  referred  to  her  as  Miss  Cornelia  than 
as  Mrs.  Elliott.  The  old  name  was  dear  to  her  old 
friends;  only  one  of  them  contemptuously  dropped  it. 
Susan  Baker,  the  gray  and  grim  and  faithful  hand- 
maiden of  the  Blythe  family  at  Ingleside,  never  lost 
an  opportunity  of  calling  her  "Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott," 
with  the  most  killing  and  pointed  emphasis,  as  if  to 
say  "You  wanted  to  be  Mrs.  and  Mrs.  you  shall  be  with 
a  vengeance  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

Miss  Cornelia  was  going  up  to  Ingleside  to  see  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Blythe,  who  were  just  home  from  Europe. 


•2  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

They  had  been  away  for  three  months,  having  left  in 
February  to  attend  a  famous  medical  congress  in  Lon- 
don; and  certain  things,  which  Miss  Cornelia  was 
anxious  to  discuss,  had  taken  place  in  the  Glen  during 
their  absence.  For  one  thing,  there  was  a  new  family 
in  the  manse.  And  such  a  family!  Miss  Cornelia 
shook  her  head  over  them  several  times  as  she  walked 
briskly  along. 

Susan  Baker  and  the  Anne  Shirley  of  other  days 
saw  her  coming,  as  they  sat  on  the  big  veranda  at 
Ingleside,  enjoying  the  charm  of  the  cat's  light,  the 
sweetness  of  sleepy  robins  whistling  among  the  twilit 
maples,  and  the  dance  of  a  gusty  group  of  daffodils 
blowing  against  the  old,  mellow,  red  brick  wall  of  the 
lawn. 

Anne  was  sitting  on  the  steps,  her  hands  clasped 
over  her  knee,  looking,  in  the  kind  dusk,  as  girlish  as 
a  mother  of  many  has  any  right  to  be ;  and  the  beauti- 
ful gray-green  eyes,  gazing  down  the  harbour  road, 
were  as  full  of  unquenchable  sparkle  and  dream  as 
ever.  Behind  her,  in  the  hammock,  Rilla  Blythe  was 
curled  up,  a  fat,  roly-poly  little  creature  of  six  years, 
the  youngest  of  the  Ingleside  children.  She  had  curly 
red  hair  and  hazel  eyes  that  were  now  buttoned  up  after 
the  funny,  wrinkled  fashion  in  which  Rilla  always  went 
to  sleep. 

Shirley,  "the  little  brown  boy,"  as  he  was  known  in 
the  family  "Who's  Who,"  was  asleep  in  Susan's  arms. 
He  was  brown-haired,  brown-eyed  and  brown-skinned, 


HOME  AGAIN  3 

with  very  rosy  cheeks,  and  he  was  Susan's  especial  love. 
After  his  birth  Anne  had  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time, 
and  Susan  "mothered"  the  baby  with  a  passionate 
tenderness  which  none  of  the  other  children,  dear  as 
they  were  to  her,  had  ever  called  out.  Dr.  Blythe  had 
said  that  but  for  her  he  would  never  have  lived. 

"I  gave  him  life  just  as  much  as  you  did,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear,"  Susan  was  wont  to  say.  "He  is  just  as  much 
my  baby  as  he  is  yours."  And,  indeed,  it  was  always 
to  Susan  that  Shirley  ran,  to  be  kissed  for  bumps,  and 
rocked  to  sleep,  and  protected  from  well-deserved 
spankings.  Susan  had  conscientiously  spanked  all  the 
other  Blythe  children  when  she  thought  they  needed  it 
for  their  souls'  good,  but  she  would  not  spank  Shirley 
nor  allow  his  mother  to  do  it.  Once,  Dr.  Blythe  had 
spanked  him  and  Susan  had  been  stormily  indignant. 

"That  man  would  sparik  an  angel,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear, 
that  he  would,"  she  had  declared  bitterly;  and  she 
would  not  make  the  poor  doctor  a  pie  for  weeks. 

She  had  taken  Shirley  with  her  to  her  brother's 
home  during  his  parents'  absence,  while  all  the  other 
children  had  gone  to  Avonlea,  and  she  had  three 
blessed  months  of  him  all  to  herself.  Nevertheless, 
Susan  was  very  glad  to  find  herself  back  at  Ingleside, 
with  all  her  darlings  around  her  again.  Ingleside  was 
her  world  and  in  it  she  reigned  supreme.  Even  Anne 
seldom  questioned  her  decisions,  much  to  the  disgust 
of  Mrs.  Rachel  Lynde  of  Green  Gables,  who  gloomily 
told  Anne,  whenever  she  visited  Four  Winds,  that  she 


4  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

was  letting  Susan  get  to  be  entirely  too  much  of  a  boss 
and  would  live  to  rue  it. 

"Here  is  Cornelia  Bryant  coming  up  the  harbour 
road,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan.  .  "She  will  be  com- 
ing to  unload  three  months'  gossip  on  us." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Anne,  hugging  her  knees.  "I'm 
starving  for  Glen  St.  Mary  gossip,  Susan.  I  hope 
Miss  Cornelia  can  tell  me  everything  that  has  happened 
while  we've  been  away — everything — who  has  got 
born,  or  married,  or  drunk;  who  has  died,  or  gone 
away,  or  come,  or  fought,  or  lost  a  cow,  or  found  a 
beau.  It's  so  delightful  to  be  home  again  with  all  the 
dear  Glen  folks,  and  I  want  to  know  all  about  them. 
Why,  I  remember  wondering,  as  I  walked  through 
Westminster  Abbey  which  of  her  two  especial  beaus 
Millicent  Drew  would  finally  marry.  Do  you  know, 
Susan,  I  have  a  dreadful  suspicion  that  I  love  gossip." 

"Well,  of  course,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  admitted  Susan, 
"every  proper  woman  likes  to  hear  the  news.  I  am 
rather  interested  in  Millicent  Drew's  case  myself.  I 
never  had  a  beau,  much  less  two,  and  I  do  not  mind 
now,  for  being  an  old  maid  does  not  hurt  when  you  get 
used  to  it.  Millicent's  hair  always  looks  to  me  as  if 
she  had  swept  it  up  with  a  broom.  But  the  men  do  not 
seem  to  mind  that." 

"They  see  only  her  pretty,  piquant,  mocking,  little 
face,  Susan." 

"That  may  very  well  be,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  The  Good 
Book  says  that  favour  is  deceitful  and  beauty  is  vain, 


HOME  AGAIN  5 

but  I  should  not  have  minded  finding  that  out  for  my- 
self, if  it  had  been  so  ordained.  I  have  no  doubt  we 
will  all  be  beautiful  when  we  are  angels,  but  what  good 
will  it  do  us  then  ?  Speaking  of  gossip,  however,  they 
do  say  that  poor  Mrs.  Harrison  Miller  over  harbour 
tried  to  hang  herself  last  week." 

"Oh,  Susan!" 

"Calm  yourself,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  She  did  not  suc- 
ceed. But  I  really  do  not  blame  her  for  trying,  for  her 
husband  is  a  terrible  man.  But  she  was  very  foolish 
to  think  of  hanging  herself  and  leaving  the  way  clear 
for  him  to  marry  some  other  woman.  If  I  had  been  in 
her  shoes,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  I  would  have  gone  to  work 
to  worry  him  so  that  he  would  try  to  hang  himself  in- 
stead of  me.  Not  that  I  hold  with  people  hanging 
themselves  under  any  circumstances,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Harrison  Miller,  any- 
way?" said  Anne  impatiently.  "He  is  always  driving 
some  one  to  extremes." 

"Well,  some  people  call  it  religion  and  some  call  it 
cussedness,  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  for 
using  such  a  word.  It  seems  they  cannot  make  out 
which  it  is  in  Harrison's  case.  There  are  days  when 
he  growls  at  everybody  because  he  thinks  he  is  fore- 
ordained to  eternal  punishment.  And  then  there  are 
days  when  he  says  he  does  not  care  and  goes  and  gets 
drunk.  My  own  opinion  is  that  he  is  not  sound  in  his 
intellect,  for  none  of  that  branch  of  the  Millers  were. 
His  grandfather  went  out  of  his  mind.  He  thought 


6  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

he  was  surrounded  by  big  black  spiders.  They  crawled 
over  him  and  floated  in  the  air  about  him.  I  hope  I 
shall  never  go  insane,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  I  do  not  think 
I  will,  because  it  is  not  a  habit  of  the  Bakers.  But,  if 
an  all-wise  Providence  should  decree  it,  I  hope  it  will 
not  take  the  form  of  big  black  spiders,  for  I  loathe  the 
animals.  As  for  Mrs.  Miller,  I  do  not  know  whether 
she  really  deserves  pity  or  not.  There  are  some  who 
say  she  just  married  Harrison  to  spite  Richard  Taylor, 
which  seems  to  me  a  very  peculiar  reason  for  getting 
married.  But  then,  of  course,  /  am  no  judge  of  things 
matrimonial,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  And  there  is  Cornelia 
Bryant  at  the  gate,  so  I  will  put  this  blessed 
baby  on  his  bed  and  get  my  knitting." 


CHAPTER  II 
SHEER  GOSSIP 

««YT  7HERE  are  the  other  children?"  asked  Miss 

V  V  Cornelia,  when  the  first  greetings — cordial 
on  her  side,  rapturous  on  Anne's,  and  dignified  on 
Susan's — were  over. 

"Shirley  is  in  bed  and  Jem  and  Walter  and  the  twins 
are  down  in  their  beloved  Rainbow  Valley,"  said  Anne. 
"They  just  came  home  this  afternoon,  you  know,  and 
they  could  hardly  wait  until  supper  was  over  before 
rushing  down  to  the  valley.  They  love  it  above  every 
spot  on  earth.  Even  the  maple  grove  doesn't  rival  it 
in  their  affections." 

"I  am  afraid  they  love  it  too  well,"  said  Susan 
gloomily.  "Little  Jem  said  once  he  would  rather  go 
to  Rainbow  Valley  than  to  heaven  when  he  died,  and 
that  was  not  a  proper  remark." 

"I  suppose  they  had  a  great  time  in  Avonlea?"  said 
Miss  Cornelia. 

"Enormous.  Marilla  does  spoil  them  terribly.  Jem, 
in  particular,  can  do  no  wrong  in  her  eyes." 

"Miss  Cuthbert  must  be  an  old  lady  now,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia,  getting  out  her  knitting,  so  that  she  could 
hold  her  own  with  Susan.  Miss  Cornelia  held  that 
the  woman  whose  hands  were  employed  always  had  the 
advantage  over  the  woman  whose  hands  were  not. 

7 


8  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Manila  is  eighty-five,"  said  Anne  with  a  sigh. 
"Her  hair  is  snow-white.  But,  strange  to  say,  her  eye- 
sight is  better  than  it  was  when  she  was  sixty." 

"Well,  dearie,  I'm  real  glad  you're  all  back.  I've 
been  dreadful  lonesome.  But  we  haven't  been  dull  in 
the  Glen,  believe  me.  There  hasn't  been  such  an  ex- 
citing spring  in  my  time,  as  far  as  church  matters  go. 
We've  got  settled  with  a  minister  at  last,  Anne,  dearie.'r 

"The  Reverend  John  Knox  Meredith,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear,"  said  Susan,  resolved  not  to  let  Miss  Cornelia 
tell  all  the  news. 

"Is  he  nice  ?"  asked  Anne  interestedly. 

Miss  Cornelia  sighed  and  Susan  groaned. 

"Yes,  he's  nice  enough  if  that  was  all,"  said  the 
former.  "He  is  very  nice — and  very  learned — and 
very  spiritual.  But,  oh  Anne,  dearie,  he  has  no  com- 
mon sense!" 

"How  was  it  you  called  him,  then?" 

"Well,  there's  no  doubt  he  is  by  far  the  best  preacher 
we  ever  had  in  Glen  St.  Mary  church,"  said  Miss  Cor- 
nelia, veering  a  tack  or  two.  "I  suppose  it  is  because 
he  is  so  moony  and  absent  minded  that  he  never  got  a 
town  call.  His  trial  sermon  was  simply  wonderful, 
believe  me.  Every  one  went  mad  about  it — and  his 
looks." 

"He  is  very  comely,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  when  all  is 
said  and  done,  I  do  like  to  see  a  well-looking  man  in 
the  pulpit,"  broke  in  Susan,  thinking  it  was  time  she 
asserted  herself  again. 


SHEER  GOSSIP  9 

"Besides,"  said  Miss  Cornelia,  "we  were  anxious  to 
get  settled.  And  Mr.  Meredith  was  the  first  candidate 
we  were  all  agreed  on.  Somebody  had  some  objection 
to  all  the  others.  There  was  some  talk  of  calling  Mr. 
Folsom.  He  was  a  good  preacher,  too,  but  somehow 
people  didn't  care  for  his  appearance.  He  was  too 
dark  and  sleek." 

"He  looked  exactly  like  a  great  black  tom-cat,  that 
he  did,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan.  "I  never  could 
abide  such  a  man  in  the  pulpit  every  Sunday." 

"Then  Mr.  Rogers  came  and  he  was  like  a  chip  in 
porridge — neither  harm  nor  good,"  resumed  Miss 
Cornelia.  "But  if  he  had  preached  like  Peter  and  Paul 
it  would  have  profited  him  nothing,  for  that  was  the 
day  old  Caleb  Ramsay's  sheep  strayed  into  church  and 
gave  a  loud  'ba-a-a'  just  as  he  announced  his  text. 
Everybody  laughed,  and  poor  Rogers  had  no  chance 
after  that.  Some  thought  we  ought  to  call  Mr. 
Stewart,  because  he  was  so  well  educated.  He  could 
read  the  New  Testament  in  five  languages." 

"But  I  do  not  think  he  was  any  surer  than  other  men 
of  getting  to  heaven  because  of  that,"  interjected 
Susan. 

"Most  of  us  didn't  like  his  delivery,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia,  ignoring  Susan.  "He  talked  in  grunts,  so  to 
speak.  And  Mr.  Arnett  couldn't  preach  at  all.  And 
he  picked  about  the  worst  candidating  text  there  is  in 
the  Bible— 'Curse  ye  Meroz.'  " 

"Whenever  he  got  stuck  for  an  idea,  he  would  bang 


10  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  Bible  and  shout  very  bitterly,  'Curse  ye  Meroz.' 
Poor  Meroz  got  thoroughly  cursed  that  day,  whoever 
he  was,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan. 

"The  minister  who  is  candidating  can't  be  too  care- 
ful what  text  he  chooses,"  said  Miss  Cornelia  solemnly. 
"I  believe  Mr.  Pierson  would  have  got  the  call  if  he 
had  picked  a  different  text.  But  when  he  announced 
'I  will  lift  my  eyes  to  the  hills'  he  was  done  for.  Every 
one  grinned,  for  every  one  knew  that  those  two  Hill 
girls  from  the  Harbour  Head  have  been  setting  their 
caps  for  every  single  minister  who  came  to  the  Glen 
for  the  last  fifteen  years.  And  Mr.  Newman  had  too 
large  a  family." 

"He  stayed  with  my  brother-in-law,  James  Clow," 
said  Susan.  "  'How  many  children  have  you  got  ?'  I 
asked  him.  'Nine  boys  and  a  sister  for  each  of  them,' 
he  said.  'Eighteen !'  said  I.  'Dear  me,  what  a  family !' 
And  then  he  laughed  and  laughed.  But  I  do  not  know 
why,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  I  am  certain  that  eighteen 
children  would  be  too  many  for  any  manse." 

"He  had  only  ten  children,  Susan,"  explained  Miss 
Cornelia,  with  contemptuous  patience.  "And  ten  good 
children  would  not  be  much  worse  for  the  manse  and 
congregation  than  the  four  who  are  there  now. 
Though  I  wouldn't  say,  Anne  dearie,  that  they  are  so 
bad,  either.  I  like  them — everybody  likes  them.  It's 
impossible  to  help  liking  them.  They  would  be  real 
nice  little  souls  if  there  was  any  one  to  look  after  their 
manners  and  teach  them  what  is  right  and  proper. 


SHEER  GOSSIP  11 

For  instance,  at  school  the  teacher  says  they  are  model 
children.  But  at  home  they  simply  run  wild." 

"What  about  Mrs.  Meredith?"  asked  Anne. 

"There's  no  Mrs.  Meredith.  That  is  just  the 
trouble.  Mr.  Meredith  is  a  widower.  His  wife  died 
four  years  ago.  If  we  had  known  that  I  don't  suppose 
we  would  have  called  him,  for  a  widower  is  even  worse 
in  a  congregation  than  a  single  man.  But  he  was  heard 
to  speak  of  his  children  and  we  all  supposed  there  was 
a  mother,  too.  And  when  they  came  there  was  nobody 
but  old  Aunt  Martha,  as  they  call  her.  She's  a  cousin 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  mother,  I  believe,  and  he  took  her 
in  to  save  her  from  the  poorhouse.  She  is  seventy-five 
years  old,  half  blind,  and  very  deaf  and  very  cranky." 

"And  a  very  poor  cook,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear." 

"The  worst  possible  manager  for  a  manse,"  said 
Miss  Cornelia  bitterly.  "Mr.  Meredith  won't  get  any 
other  housekeeper  because  he  says  it  would  hurt  Aunt 
Martha's  feelings.  Anne  dearie,  believe  me,  the  state 
of  that  manse  is  something  terrible.  Everything  is 
thick  with  dust  and  nothing  is  ever  in  its  place.  And 
we  had  painted  and  papered  it  all  so  nice  before  they 
came." 

"There  are  four  children,  you  say?"  asked  Anne, 
beginning  to  mother  them  already  in  her  heart. 

"Yes.  They  run  up  just  like  the  steps  of  a  stair. 
Gerald's  the  oldest.  He's  twelve  and  they  call  him 
Jerry.  He's  a  clever  boy.  Faith  is  eleven.  She  is  a 
regular  torn-boy  but  pretty  as  a  picture,  I  must  say." 


12  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"She  looks  like  an  angel  but  she  is  a  holy  terror  for 
mischief,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan  solemnly.  "I  was 
at  the  manse  one  night  last  week  and  Mrs.  James  Milli- 
son  was  there,  too.  She  had  brought  them  up  a  dozen 
eggs  and  a  little  pail  of  milk — a  very  little  pail,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear.  Faith  took  them  and  whisked  down  cellar 
with  them.  Near  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  she  caught 
her  toe  and  fell  the  rest  of  the  way,  milk  and  eggs  and 
all.  You  can  imagine  the  result,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  But 
that  child  came  up  laughing.  'I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  myself  or  a  custard  pie,'  she  said.  And  Mrs.  James 
Millison  was  very  angry.  She  said  she  would  never 
take  another  thing  to  the  manse  if  it  was  to  be  wasted 
and  destroyed  in  that  fashion." 

"Maria  Millison  never  hurt  herself  taking  things  to 
the  manse,"  sniffed  Miss  Cornelia.  "She  just  took 
them  that  night  as  an  excuse  for  curiosity.  But  poor 
Faith  is  always  getting  into  scrapes.  She  is  so  heed- 
less and  impulsive." 

"Just  like  me.  I'm  going  to  like  your  Faith,"  said 
Anne  decidedly. 

"She  is  full  of  spunk — and  I  do  like  spunk,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear,"  admitted  Susan. 

"There's  something  taking  about  her,"  conceded 
Miss  Cornelia.  "You  never  see  her  but  she's  laughing, 
and  somehow  it  always  makes  you  want  to  laugh  too. 
She  can't  even  keep  a  straight  face  in  church.  Una  is 
ten — she's  a  sweet  little  thing — not  pretty,  but  sweet. 
And  Thomas  Carlyle  is  nine.  They  call  him  Carl,  and 


SHEER  GOSSIP  13 

he  has  a  regular  mania  for  collecting  toads  and  bugs 
and  frogs  and  bringing  them  into  the  house." 

"I  suppose  he  was  responsible  for  the  dead  rat  that 
was  lying  on  a  chair  in  the  parlour  the  afternoon  Mrs. 
Grant  called.  It  gave  her  a  turn,"  said  Susan,  "and  I 
do  not  wonder,  for  manse  parlours  are  no  places  for 
dead  rats.  To  be  sure  it  may  have  been  the  cat  who 
left  it  there.  He  is  as  full  of  the  old  Nick  as  he  can 
be  stuffed,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  A  manse  cat  should  at  least 
look  respectable,  in  my  opinion,  whatever  he  really  is. 
But  I  never  saw  such  a  rakish-looking  beast.  And  he 
walks  along  the  ridge  pole  of  the  manse  almost  every 
evening  at  sunset,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  waves  his  tail, 
and  that  is  not  becoming." 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  they  are  never  decently  dressed," 
sighed  Miss  Cornelia.  "And  since  the  snow  went  they 
go  to  school  barefooted.  Now,  you  know  Anne 
dearie,  that  isn't  the  right  thing  for  manse  children — 
especially  when  the  Methodist  minister's  little  girl 
always  wears  such  nice  buttoned  boots.  And  I  do 
wish  they  wouldn't  play  in  the  old  Methodist  grave- 
yard." 

"It's  very  tempting,  when  it's  right  beside  the 
manse,"  said  Anne.  "I've  always  thought  graveyards 
must  be  delightful  places  to  play  in." 

"Oh,  no,  you  did  not,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  loyal 
Susan,  determined  to  protect  Anne  from  herself. 
"You  have  too  much  good  sense  and  decorum." 

"Why  did  they  ever  build  that  manse  beside  the 


14  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

graveyard  in  the  first  place,"  asked  Anne.  "Their  lawn 
is  so  small  there  is  no  place  for  them  to  play  except  in 
the  graveyard." 

"It  was  a  mistake,"  admitted  Miss  Cornelia.  "But 
they  got  the  lot  cheap.  And  no  other  manse  children 
ever  thought  of  playing  there.  Mr.  Meredith  shouldn't 
allow  it.  But  he  has  always  got  his  nose  buried  in  a 
book,  when  he  is  home.  He  reads  and  reads,  or 
walks  about  in  his  study  in  a  day-dream.  So  far  he 
hasn't  forgotten  to  be  in  church  on  Sundays,  but  twice 
he  has  forgotten  about  the  prayer  meeting  and  one  of 
the  elders  had  to  go  over  to  the  manse  and  remind  him. 
And  he  forgot  about  Fanny  Cooper's  wedding.  They 
rung  him  up  on  the  'phone  and  then  he  rushed  right 
over,  just  as  he  was,  carpet  slippers  and  all.  One 
wouldn't  mind  if  the  Methodists  didn't  laugh  so  about 
it.  But  there's  one  comfort — they  can't  criticize  his 
sermons.  He  wakes  up  when  he's  in  the  pulpit,  believe 
me.  And  the  Methodist  minister  can't  preach  at  all — 
so  they  tell  me.  7  have  never  heard  him,  thank  good- 
ness." 

Miss  Cornelia's  scorn  of  men  had  abated  somewhat 
since  her  marriage,  but  her  scorn  of  Methodists  re- 
mained untinged  of  charity.  Susan  smiled  slyly. 

"They  do  say,  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott,  that  the  Meth- 
odists and  Presbyterians  are  talking  of  uniting,"  she 
said. 

"Well,  all  I  hope  is  that  I'll  be  under  the  sod  if  that 
ever  comes  to  pass,"  retorted  Miss  Cornelia.  "I  shall 


SHEER  GOSSIP  15 

never  have  truck  or  trade  with  Methodists,  and  Mr. 
Meredith  will  find  that  he'd  better  steer  clear  of  them, 
too.  He  is  entirely  too  sociable  with  them,  believe  me. 
Why,  he  went  to  the  Jacob  Drew's  silver  wedding  sup- 
per and  got  into  a  nice  scrape  as  a  result." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Mrs.  Drew  asked  him  to  carve  the  roast  goose — 
for  Jacob  Drew  never  did  or  could  carve.  Well,  Mr. 
Meredith  tackled  it,  and  in  the  process  he  knocked  it 
clean  off  the  platter  into  Mrs.  Reese's  lap,  who  was 
sitting  next  him.  And  he  just  said  dreamily,  'Mrs. 
Reese,  will  you  kindly  return  me  that  goose?'  Mrs. 
Reese  'returned'  it,  as  meek  as  Moses,  but  she  must 
have  been  furious,  for  she  had  on  her  new  silk  dress. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  she  was  a  Methodist." 

"But  I  think  that  is  better  than  if  she  was  a  Presby- 
terian," interjected  Susan.  "If  she  had  been  a  Presby- 
terian she  would  most  likely  have  left  the  church  and 
we  cannot  afford  to  lose  our  members.  And  Mrs. 
Reese  is  not  liked  in  her  own  church,  because  she  gives 
herself  such  great  airs,  so  that  the  Methodists  would 
be  rather  pleased  that  Mr.  Meredith  spoiled  her  dress." 

"The  point  is,  he  made  himself  ridiculous,  and  I, 
for  one,  do  not  like  to  see  my  minister  made  ridiculous 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Methodists,"  said  Miss  Cornelia 
stiffly.  "If  he  had  had  a  wife  it  would  not  have  hap- 
pened." 

"I  do  not  see  if  he  had  a  dozen  wives  how  they 
could  have  prevented  Mrs.  Drew  from  using  up  her 


16  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

tough  old  gander  for  the  wedding  feast,"  said  Susan 
stubbornly. 

"They  say  that  was  her  husband's  doing,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia.  "Jacob  Drew  is  a  conceited,  stingy,  domi- 
neering creature." 

"And  they  do  say  he  and  his  wife  detest  each  other 
— which  does  not  seem  to  me  the  proper  way  for  mar- 
ried folks  to  get  along.  But  then,  of  course,  I  have 
had  no  experience  along  that  line,"  said  Susan,  tossing 
her  head.  "And  /  am  not  one  to  blame  everything  on 
the  men.  Mrs.  Drew  is  mean  enough  herself.  They 
say  that  the  only  thing  she  was  ever  known  to  give 
away  was  a  crock  of  butter  made  out  of  cream  a  rat 
had  fell  into.  She  contributed  it  to  a  church  social. 
Nobody  found  out  about  the  rat  until  afterwards." 

"Fortunately,  all  the  people  the  Merediths  have 
offended  so  far  are  Methodists,"  said  Miss  Cornelia. 
"That  Jerry  went  to  the  Methodist  prayer  meeting  one 
night  about  a  fortnight  ago  and  sat  beside  old  William 
Marsh  who  got  up  as  usual  and  testified  with  fearful 
groans.  'Do  you  feel  any  better  now?'  whispered 
Jerry  when  William  sat  down.  Poor  Jerry  meant  to 
be  sympathetic,  but  Mr.  Marsh  thought  he  was  im- 
pertinent and  is  furious  at  him.  Of  course,  Jerry  had 
no  business  to  be  in  a  Methodist  prayer  meeting  at  all. 
But  they  go  where  they  like." 

"I  hope  they  will  not  offend  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  of  the 
Harbour  Head,"  said  Susan.  "She  is  a  very  touchy 
woman,  I  understand,  but  she  is  very  well  off  and  pays 


SHEER  GOSSIP  17 

the  most  of  any  one  to  the  salary.  I  have  heard  that 
she  says  the  Merediths  are  the  worst  brought  up  chil- 
dren she  ever  saw." 

"Every  word  you  say  convinces  me  more  and  more 
that  the  Merediths  belong  to  the  race  that  knows 
Joseph,"  said  Mistress  Anne  decidedly. 

"When  all  is  said  and  done,  they  do"  admitted  Miss 
Cornelia.  "And  that  balances  everything.  Anyway, 
we've  got  them  now  and  we  must  just  do  the  best  we 
can  by  them  and  stick  up  for  them  to  the  Methodists. 
Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be  getting  down  harbour.  Mar- 
shall will  soon  be  home — he  went  over-harbour  to-day 
— and  wanting  his  supper,  man-like.  I'm  sorry  I 
haven't  seen  the  other  children.  And  where's  the 
doctor?" 

"Up  at  the  Harbour  Head.  We've  only  been  home 
three  days  and  in  that  time  he  has  spent  three  hours 
in  his  own  bed  and  eaten  two  meals  in  his  own  house." 

"Well,  everybody  who  has  been  sick  for  the  last 
six  weeks  has  been  waiting  for  him  to  come  home — 
and  I  don't  blame  them.  When  that  over-harbour 
doctor  married  the  undertaker's  daughter  at  Low- 
bridge  people  felt  suspicious  of  him.  It  didn't  look 
well.  You  and  the  doctor  must  come  down  soon  and 
tell  us  all  about  your  trip.  I  suppose  you've  had  a 
splendid  time." 

"We  had,"  agreed  Anne.  "It  was  the  fulfilment  of 
years  of  dreams.  The  old  world  is  very  lovely  and 
very  wonderful.  But  we  have  come  back  very  well 


18  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

satisfied  with  our  own  land.  Canada  is  the  finest 
country  in  the  world,  Miss  Cornelia." 

"Nobody  ever  doubted  that,"  said  Miss  Cornelia, 
complacently. 

"And  old  P.  E.  I.  is  the  loveliest  province  in  it  and 
Four  Winds  the  loveliest  spot  in  P.  E.  I.,"  laughed 
Anne,  looking  adoringly  out  over  the  sunset  splendour 
of  glen  and  harbour  and  gulf.  She  waved  her  hand 
at  it.  "I  saw  nothing  more  beautiful  than  that  in 
Europe,  Miss  Cornelia.  Must  you  go?  The  children 
will  be  sorry  to  have  missed  you." 

"They  must  come  and  see  me  soon.  Tell  them  the 
doughnut  jar  is  always  full." 

"Oh,  at  supper  they  were  planning  a  descent  on  you. 
They'll  go  soon;  but  they  must  settle  down  to  school 
again  now.  And  the  twins  are  going  to  take  music 
lessons." 

"Not  from  the  Methodist  minister's  wife,  I  hope?" 
said  Miss  Cornelia  anxiously. 

"No, — from  Rosemary  West.  I  was  up  last  evening 
to  arrange  it  with  her.  What  a  pretty  girl  she  is !" 

"Rosemary  holds  her  own  well.  She  isn't  as  young 
as  she  once  was." 

"I  thought  her  very  charming.  I've  never  had  any 
real  acquaintance  with  her,  you  know.  Their  house 
is  so  out  of  the  way,  and  I've  seldom  ever  seen  her 
except  at  church." 

"People  always  have  liked  Rosemary  West,  though 
they  don't  understand  her,"  said  Miss  Cornelia,  quite 


SHEER  GOSSIP  19 

unconscious  of  the  high  tribute  she  was  paying  to 
Rosemary's  charm.  "Ellen  has  always  kept  her  down, 
so  to  speak.  She  has  tyrannized  over  her,  and  yet  she 
has  always  indulged  her  in  a  good  many  ways.  Rose- 
mary was  engaged  once,  you  know, — to  young  Martin 
Crawford.  His  ship  was  wrecked  on  the  Magdalens 
and  all  the  crew  were  drowned.  Rosemary  was  just 
a  child — only  seventeen.  But  she  was  never  the  same 
afterwards.  She  and  Ellen  have  stayed  very  close 
at  home  since  their  mother's  death.  They  don't  often 
get  to  their  own  church  at  Lowbridge  and  I  under- 
stand Ellen  doesn't  approve  of  going  too  often  to  a 
Presbyterian  church.  To  the  Methodist  she  never 
goes,  I'll  say  that  much  for  her.  That  family  of  Wests 
have  always  been  strong  Episcopalians.  Rosemary 
and  Ellen  are  pretty  well  off.  Rosemary  doesn't  really 
need  to  give  music  lessons.  She  does  it  because  she 
likes  to.  They  are  distantly  related  to  Leslie,  you 
know.  Are  the  Fords  coming  to  the  harbour  this 
summer?" 

"No.  They  are  going  on  a  trip  to  Japan  and  will 
probably  be  away  for  a  year.  Owen's  new  novel  is 
to  have  a  Japanese  setting.  This  will  be  the  first  sum- 
mer that  the  dear  old  house  of  dreams  will  be  empty 
since  we  left  it." 

"I  should  think  Owen  Ford  might  find  enough  to 
write  about  in  Canada  without  dragging  his  wife  and 
his  innocent  children  off  to  a  heathen  country  like 
Japan,"  grumbled  Miss  Cornelia.  "The  Life  Book  was 


20  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  best  book  he's  ever  written  and  he  got  the  material 
for  that  right  here  in  Four  Winds." 

"Captain  Jim  gave  him  the  most  of  that,  you  know. 
And  he  collected  it  all  over  the  world.  But  Owen's 
books  are  all  delightful,  I  think." 

"Oh,  they're  well  enough  as  far  as  they  go.  I  make 
it  a  point  to  read  every  one  he  writes,  though  I've 
always  held,  Anne  dearie,  that  reading  novels  is  a 
sinful  waste  of  time.  I  shall  write  and  tell  him  my 
opinion  of  this  Japanese  business,  believe  me.  Does 
he  want  Kenneth  and  Persis  to  be  converted  into 
pagans  ?" 

With  which  unanswerable  conundrum  Miss  Cor- 
nelia took  her  departure.  Susan  proceeded  to  put 
Rilla  in  bed  and  Anne  sat  on  the  veranda  steps  under 
the  early  stars  and  dreamed  her  incorrigible  dreams 
and  learned  all  over  again  for  the  hundredth  happy 
time  what  a  moonrise  splendour  and  sheen  could  be  on 
Four  Winds  Harbour. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN 

IN  daytime  the  Blythe  children  liked  very  well  to 
play  in  the  rich,  soft  greens  and  glooms  of  the  big 
maple  grove  between  Ingleside  and  the  Glen  St.  Mary 
pond;  but  for  evening  revels  there  was  no  place  like 
the  little  valley  behind  the  maple  grove.  It  was  a  fairy 
realm  of  romance  to  them.  Once,  looking  from  the 
attic  windows  of  Ingleside,  through  the  mist  and  after- 
math of  a  summer  thunderstorm,  they  had  seen  the 
beloved  spot  arched  by  a  glorious  rainbow,  one  end  of 
which  seemed  to  dip  straight  down  to  where  a  corner 
of  the  pond  ran  up  into  the  lower  end  of  the  valley. 

"Let  us  call  it  Rainbow  Valley,"  said  Walter  de- 
lightedly, and  Rainbow  Valley  thenceforth  it  was. 

Outside  of  Rainbow  Valley  the  wind  might  be  rol- 
licking and  boisterous.  Here  it  always  went  gently. 
Little,  winding,  fairy  paths  ran  here  and  there  over 
spruce  roots  cushioned  with  moss.  Wild  cherry  trees, 
that  in  blossom  time  would  be  misty  white,  were  scat- 
tered all  over  the  valley,  mingling  with  the  dark 
spruces.  A  little  brook  with  amber  waters  ran  through 
it  from  the  Glen  village.  The  houses  of  the  village 
were  comfortably  far  away;  only  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  valley  was  a  little  tumble-down,  deserted  cottage, 

21 


22  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

referred  to  as  "the  old  Bailey  house."  It  had  not  been 
occupied  for  many  years,  but  a  grass-grown  dyke  sur- 
rounded it  and  inside  was  an  ancient  garden  where 
the  Ingleside  children  could  find  violets  and  daisies  and 
June  lilies  still  blooming  in  season.  For  the  rest,  the 
garden  was  overgrown  with  caraway  that  swayed  and 
foamed  in  the  moonshine  of  summer  eves  like  seas  of 
silver. 

To  the  south  lay  the  pond  and  beyond  it  the  ripened 
distance  lost  itself  in  purple  woods,  save  where,  on  a 
high  hill,  a  solitary  old  gray  homestead  looked  down 
on  Glen  and  harbour.  There  was  a  certain  wild 
woodsiness  and  solitude  about  Rainbow  Valley,  in 
spite  of  its  nearness  to  the  village,  which  endeared  it 
to  the  children  of  Ingleside. 

The  valley  was  full  of  dear,  friendly  hollows  and 
the  largest  of  these  was  their  favourite  stamping 
ground.  Here  they  were  assembled  on  this  particular 
evening.  There  was  a  grove  of  young  spruces  in  this 
hollow,  with  a  tiny,  grassy  glade  in  its  heart,  opening 
on  the  bank  of  the  brook.  By  the  brook  grew  a  silver 
birch  tree,  a  young,  incredibly  straight  thing  which 
Walter  had  named  the  "White  Lady."  In  this  glade, 
too,  were  the  "Tree  Lovers,"  as  Walter  called  a  spruce 
and  maple  which  grew  so  closely  together  that  their 
boughs  were  inextricably  intertwined.  Jem  had  hung 
an  old  string  of  sleigh  bells,  given  him  by  the  Glen 
blacksmith,  on  the  Tree  Lovers,  and  every  visitant 
breeze  called  out  sudden  fairy  tinkles  from  it. 


THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN         23 

"How  nice  it  is  to  be  back !"  said  Nan.  "After  all, 
none  of  the  Avonlea  places  are  quite  as  nice  as  Rain- 
bow Valley." 

But  they  were  very  fond  of  the  Avonlea  places  for 
all  that.  A  visit  to  Green  Gables  was  always  consid- 
ered a  great  treat.  Aunt  Marilla  was  very  good  to 
them,  and  so  was  Mrs.  Rachel  Lynde,  who  was  spend- 
ing the  leisure  of  her  old  age  in  knitting  cotton-warp 
quilts  against  the  day  when  Anne's  daughters  should 
need  a  "setting-out."  There  were  jolly  playmates 
there,  too — "Uncle"  Davy's  children  and  "Aunt" 
Diana's  children.  They  knew  all  the  spots  their  mother 
had  loved  so  well  in  her  girlhood  at  old  Green  Gables 
— the  long  Lover's  Lane,  that  was  pink-hedged  in  wild- 
rose  time,  the  always  neat  yard,  with  its  willows  and 
poplars,  the  Dryad's  Bubble,  lucent  and  lovely  as  of 
yore,  the  Lake  of  Shining  Waters,  and  Willowmere. 
The  twins  had  their  mother's  old  porch-gable  room, 
and  Aunt  Marilla  used  to  come  in  at  night,  when  she 
thought  they  were  asleep,  to  gloat  over  them.  But 
they  all  knew  she  loved  Jem  the  best. 

Jem  was  at  present  busily  occupied  in  frying  a  mess 
of  small  trout  which  he  had  just  caught  in  the  pond. 
His  stove  consisted  of  a  circle  of  red  stones,  with  a 
fire  kindled  in  it,  and  his  culinary  utensils  were  an  old 
tin  can,  hammered  out  flat,  and  a  fork  with  only  one 
tine  left.  Nevertheless,  ripping  good  meals  had  before 
now  been  thus  prepared. 

Jem  was  the  child  of  the  House  of  Dreams.     All 


24  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  others  had  been  born  at  Ingleside.  He  had  curly 
red  hair,  like  his  mother's,  and  frank  hazel  eyes,  like 
his  father's;  he  had  his  mother's  fine  nose  and  his 
father's  steady,  humorous  mouth.  And  he  was  the 
only  one  of  the  family  who  had  ears  nice  enough  to 
please  Susan.  But  he  had  a  standing  feud  with  Susan 
because  she  would  not  give  up  calling  him  Little  Jem. 
It  was  outrageous,  thought  thirteen  year  old  Jem. 
Mother  had  more  sense. 

"I'm  not  little  any  more,  mother,"  he  had  cried  in- 
dignantly, on  his  eighth  birthday.  "I'm  awful  big." 

Mother  had  sighed  and  laughed  and  sighed  again; 
and  she  never  called  him  Little  Jem  again — in  his 
hearing  at  least. 

He  was  and  always  had  been  a  sturdy,  reliable  little 
chap.  He  never  broke  a  promise.  He  was  not  a  great 
talker.  His  teachers  did  not  think  him  brilliant,  but 
he  was  a  good,  all-round  student.  He  never  took  things 
on  faith ;  he  always  liked  to  investigate  the  truth  of  a 
statement  for  himself.  Once  Susan  had  told  him  that 
if  he  touched  his  tongue  to  a  frosty  latch  all  the  skin 
would  tear  off  it.  Jem  had  promptly  done  it,  "just 
to  see  if  it  was  so."  He  found  it  was  "so,"  at  the  cost 
of  a  very  sore  tongue  for  several  days.  But  Jem  did 
not  grudge  suffering  in  the  interests  of  science.  By 
constant  experiment  and  observation  he  learned  a  great 
deal  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  thought  his  extensive 
knowledge  of  their  little  world  quite  wonderful.  Jem 
always  knew  where  the  first  and  ripest  berries  grew, 


THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN          25 

where  the  first  pale  violets  shyly  wakened  from  their 
winter's  sleep,  and  how  many  blue  eggs  were  in  a  given 
robin's  nest  in  the  maple  grove.  He  could  tell  fortunes 
from  daisy  petals  and  suck  honey  from  red  clovers, 
and  grub  up  all  sorts  of  edible  roots  on  the  banks  of 
the  pond,  while  Susan  went  in  daily  fear  that  they 
would  all  be  poisoned.  He  knew  where  the  finest 
spruce  gum  was  to  be  found,  in  pale  amber  knots  on 
the  lichened  bark,  he  knew  where  the  nuts  grew  thickest 
in  the  beech  woods  around  the  Harbour  Head,  and 
where  the  best  trouting  places  up  the  brooks  were.  He 
could  mimic  the  call  of  any  wild  bird  or  beast  in  Four 
Winds  and  he  knew  the  haunt  of  every  wild  flower 
from  spring  to  autumn. 

Walter  Blythe  was  sitting  under  the  White  Lady, 
with  a  volume  of  poems  lying  beside  him,  but  he  was 
not  reading.  He  was  gazing  now  at  the  emerald-misted 
willows  by  the  pond,  and  now  at  a  flock  of  clouds,  like 
little  silver  sheep,  herded  by  the  wind,  that  were  drift- 
ing over  Rainbow  Valley,  with  rapture  in  his  wide 
splendid  eyes.  Walter's  eyes  were  very  wonderful. 
All  the  joy  and  sorrow  and  laughter  and  loyalty  and 
aspiration  of  many  generations  lying  under  the  sod 
looked  out  of  their  dark  gray  depths. 

Walter  was  a  "hop  out  of  kin,"  as  far  as  looks  went. 
He  did  not  resemble  any  known  relative.  He  was  quite 
the  handsomest  of  the  Ingleside  children,  with  straight 
black  hair  and  finely  modelled  features.  But  he  had 
all  his  mother's  vivid  imagination  and  passionate  love 


26  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

of  beauty.  Frost  of  winter,  invitation  of  spring,  dream 
of  summer  and  glamour  of  autumn,  all  meant  much  to 
Walter. 

In  school,  where  Jem  was  a  chieftain,  Walter  was 
not  thought  highly  of.  He  was  supposed  to  be  "girly" 
and  milk-soppish,  because  he  never  fought  and  seldom 
joined  in  the  school  sports,  preferring  to  herd  by  him- 
self in  out  of  the  way  corners  and  read  books — espe- 
cially "po'try  books."  Walter  loved  the  poets  and 
pored  over  their  pages  from  the  time  he  could  first 
read.  Their  music  was  woven  into  his  growing  soul — 
the  music  of  the  immortals.  Walter  cherished  the  am- 
bition to  be  a  poet  himself  some  day.  The  thing  could 
be  done.  A  certain  Uncle  Paul — so  called  of  courtesy 
— who  lived  now  in  that  mysterious  realm  called  "the 
States,"  was  Walter's  model.  Uncle  Paul  had  once 
been  a  little  school  boy  in  Avonlea  and  now  his  poetry 
was  read  everywhere.  But  the  Glen  schoolboys  did 
not  know  of  Walter's  dreams  and  would  not  have 
been  greatly  impressed  if  they  had.  In  spite  of  his 
lack  of  physical  prowess,  however,  he  commanded  a 
certain  unwilling  respect  because  of  his  power  of  "talk- 
ing book  talk."  Nobody  in  Glen  St.  Mary  school  could 
talk  like  him.  He  "sounded  like  a  preacher,"  one  boy 
said;  and  for  this  reason  he  was  generally  left  alone 
and  not  persecuted,  as  most  boys  were  who  were  sus- 
pected of  disliking  or  fearing  fisticuffs. 

The  ten  year  old  Ingleside  twins  violated  twin  tradi- 
tion by  not  looking  in  the  least  alike.  Anne,  who  was 


THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN          27 

always  called  Nan,  was  very  pretty,  with  velvety  nut- 
brown  eyes  and  silky  nut-brown  hair.  She  was  a  very 
blithe  and  dainty  little  maiden — Blythe  by  name  and 
blithe  by  nature,  one  of  her  teachers  had  said.  Her 
complexion  was  quite  faultless,  much  to  her  mother's 
satisfaction. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  have  one  daughter  who  can  wear 
pink,"  Mrs.  Blythe  was  wont  to  say  jubilantly. 

Diana  Blythe,  known  as  Di,  was  very  like  her 
mother,  with  gray-green  eyes  that  always  shone  with 
a  peculiar  lustre  and  brilliancy  in  the  dusk,  and  red 
hair.  Perhaps  this  was  why  she  was  her  father's 
favourite.  She  and  Walter  were  especial  chums;  Di 
was  the  only  one  to  whom  he  would  ever  read  the 
verses  he  wrote  himself — the  only  one  who  knew  that 
he  was  secretly  hard  at  work  on  an  epic,  strikingly 
resembling  "Marmion"  in  some  things,  if  not  in  others. 
She  kept  all  his  secrets,  even  from  Nan,  and  told  him 
all  hers. 

"Won't  you  soon  have  those  fish  ready,  Jem  ?"  said 
Nan,  sniffing  with  her  dainty  nose.  "The  smell  makes 
me  awfully  hungry." 

"They're  nearly  ready,"  said  Jem,  giving  one  a  dex- 
terous turn.  "Get  out  the  bread  and  the  plates,  girls. 
Walter,  wake  up." 

"How  the  air  shines  to-night,"  said  Walter  dreamily. 
Not  that  he  despised  fried  trout  either,  by  any  means ; 
but  with  Walter  food  for  the  soul  always  took  first 
place.  "The  flower  angel  has  been  walking  over  the 


28  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

world  to-day,  calling  to  the  flowers.  I  can  see  his 
blue  wings  on  that  hill  by  the  \voods." 

"Any  angels'  wings  I  ever  saw  were  white,"  said 
Nan. 

"The  flower  angel's  aren't.  They  are  a  pale  misty 
blue,  just  like  the  haze  in  the  valley.  Oh,  how  I  wish 
I  could  fly.  It  must  be  just  glorious." 

"One  does  fly  in  dreams  sometimes,"  said  Di. 

"I  never  dream  that  I'm  flying  exactly,"  said  Walter. 
"But  I  often  dream  that  I  just  rise  up  from  the  ground 
and  float  over  the  fences  and  the  trees.  It's  delightful 
— and  I  always  think,  'This  isn't  a  dream  like  it's 
always  been  before.  This  is  real' — and  then  I  wake 
up  after  all,  and  it's  heart-breaking." 

"Hurry  up,  Nan,"  ordered  Jem. 

Nan  had  produced  the  banquet  board — a  board 
literally  as  well  as  figuratively — from  which  many  a 
feast,  seasoned  as  no  viands  were  elsewhere,  had  been 
eaten  in  Rainbow  Valley.  It  was  converted  into  a 
table  by  propping  it  on  two  large,  mossy  stones.  News- 
papers served  as  tablecloth,  and  broken  plates  and 
handleless  cups  from  Susan's  discard  furnished  the 
dishes.  From  a  tin  box  secreted  at  the  root  of  a 
spruce  tree  Nan  brought  forth  bread  and  salt.  The 
brook  gave  Adam's  ale  of  unsurpassed  crystal.  For 
the  rest,  there  was  a  certain  sauce,  compounded  of 
fresh  air  and  appetite  of  youth,  which  gave  to  every- 
thing a  divine  flavour.  To  sit  in  Rainbow  Valley, 
steeped  in  a  twilight  half  gold,  half  amethyst,  rife  with 


THE  INGLESIDE  CHILDREN          29 

the  odours  of  balsam-fir  and  woodsy  growing  things 
in  their  springtime  prime,  with  the  pale  stars  of  wild 
strawberry  blossoms  all  around  you,  and  with  the 
sough  of  the  wind  and  tinkle  of  bells  in  the  shaking 
tree  tops,  and  eat  fried  trout  and  dry  bread,  was  some- 
thing which  the  mighty  of  earth  might  have  envied 
them. 

"Sit  in,"  invited  Nan,  as  Jem  placed  his  sizzling  tin 
platter  of  trout  on  the  table.  "It's  your  turn  to  say 
grace,  Jem." 

"I've  done  my  part  frying  the  trout,"  protested  Jem, 
who  hated  saying  grace.  "Let  Walter  say  it.  He 
likes  saying  grace.  And  cut  it  short,  too,  Walt.  I'm 
starving." 

But  Walter  said  no  grace,  short  or  long,  just  then. 
An  interruption  occurred. 

"Who's  coming  down  from  the  manse  hill?"  said  Di. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  MANSE  CHILDREN 

AUNT  MARTHA  might  be,  and  was,  a  very  poor 
housekeeper;  the  Rev.  John  Knox  Meredith 
might  be,  and  was,  a  very  absent-minded,  indulgent 
man.  But  it  could  not  be  denied  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  homelike  and  lovable  about  the  Glen  St. 
Mary  manse  in  spite  of  its  untidiness.  Even  the  criti- 
cal housewives  of  the  Glen  felt  it,  and  were  uncon- 
sciously mellowed  in  judgment  because  of  it.  Perhaps 
its  charm  was  in  part  due  to  accidental  circumstances — 
the  luxuriant  vines  clustering  over  its  gray,  clap- 
boarded  walls,  the  friendly  acacias  and  balm-of-gileads 
that  crowded  about  it  with  the  freedom  of  old  acquaint- 
ance, and  the  beautiful  views  of  harbour  and  sand- 
dunes  from  its  front  windows.  But  these  things  had 
been  there  in  the  reign  of  Mr.  Meredith's  predecessor, 
when  the  manse  had  been  the  primmest,  neatest,  and 
dreariest  house  in  the  Glen.  So  much  of  the  credit 
must  be  given  to  the  personality  of  its  new  inmates. 
There  was  an  atmosphere  of  laughter  and  comrade- 
ship about  it;  the  doors  were  always  open;  the  inner 
and  outer  worlds  joined  hands.  Love  was  the  only 
law  in  Glen  St.  Mary  manse. 

The    people    of    his    congregation    said    that    Mr. 
Meredith  spoiled  his  children.    Very  likely  he  did.    It 

30 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  31 

is  certain  that  he  could  not  bear  to  scold  them.  "They 
have  no  mother,"  he  used  to  say  to  himself,  with  a 
sigh,  when  some  unusually  glaring  peccadillo  forced 
itself  upon  his  notice.  But  he  did  not  know  half  of 
their  goings-on.  He  belonged  to  the  sect  of  dreamers. 
The  windows  of  his  study  looked  out  on  the  grave- 
yard but,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  reflecting 
deeply  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  he  was  quite 
unaware  that  Jerry  and  Carl  were  playing  leap-frog 
hilariously  over  the  flat  stones  in  that  abode  of  dead 
Methodists.  Mr.  Meredith  had  occasional  acute  reali- 
zations that  his  children  were  not  so  well  looked  after, 
physically  or  morally,  as  they  had  been  before  his 
wife  died,  and  he  had  always  a  dim  sub-consciousness 
that  house  and  meals  were  very  different  under  Aunt 
Martha's  management  from  what  they  had  been  under 
Cecilia's.  For  the  rest,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  books 
and  abstractions;  and,  therefore,  although  his  clothes 
were  seldom  brushed,  and  although  the  Glen  house- 
wives concluded,  from  the  ivory-like  pallor  of  his  clear- 
cut  features  and  slender  hands,  that  he  never  got 
enough  to  eat,  he  was  not  an  unhappy  man. 

If  ever  a  graveyard  could  be  called  a  cheerful  place, 
the  old  Methodist  graveyard  at  Glen  St.  Mary  might 
be  so  called.  The  new  graveyard,  at  the  other  side 
of  the  Methodist  church,  was  a  neat  and  proper  and 
doleful  spot;  but  the  old  one  had  been  left  so  long  to 
Nature's  kindly  and  gracious  ministries  that  it  had 
become  very  pleasant. 


32  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

It  was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a  dyke  of 
stones  and  sod,  topped  by  a  gray  and  uncertain  paling. 
Outside  the  dyke  grew  a  row  of  tall  fir  trees  with 
thick,  balsamic  boughs.  The  dyke,  which  had  been 
built  by  the  first  settlers  of  the  Glen,  was  old  enough 
to  be  beautiful,  with  mosses  and  green  things  growing 
out  of  its  crevices,  violets  purpling  at  its  base  in  the 
early  spring  days,  and  asters  and  golden-rod  making 
an  autumnal  glory  in  its  corners.  Little  ferns  clustered 
companionably  between  its  stones,  and  here  and  there 
a  big  bracken  grew. 

On  the  eastern  side  there  was  neither  fence  nor 
dyke.  The  graveyard  there  straggled  off  into  a  young 
fir  plantation,  ever  pushing  nearer  to  the  graves  and 
deepening  eastward  into  a  thick  wood.  The  air  was 
always  full  of  the  harp-like  voices  of  the  sea,  and  the 
music  of  gray  old  trees,  and  in  the  spring  mornings  the 
choruses  of  birds  in  the  elms  around  the  two  churches 
sang  of  life  and  not  of  death.  The  Meredith  children 
loved  the  old  graveyard. 

Blue-eyed  ivy,  "garden-spruce,"  and  mint  ran  riot 
over  the  sunken  graves.  Blueberry  bushes  grew  lav- 
ishly in  the  sandy  corner  next  to  the  fir  wood.  The 
varying  fashions  of  tombstones  for  three  generations 
were  to  be  found  there,  from  the  flat,  oblong,  red  sand- 
stone slabs  of  old  settlers,  down  through  the  days  of 
weeping  willows  and  clasped  hands,  to  the  latest  mon- 
strosities of  tall  "monuments"  and  draped  urns.  One 
of  the  latter,  the  biggest  and  ugliest  in  the  graveyard, 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  33 

was  sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  certain  Alec  Davis  who 
had  been  born  a  Methodist  but  had  taken  to  himself 
a  Presbyterian  bride  of  the  Douglas  clan.  She  had 
made  him  turn  Presbyterian  and  kept  him  toeing  the 
Presbyterian  mark  all  his  life.  But  when  he  died  she 
did  not  dare  to  doom  him  to  a  lonely  grave  in  the 
Presbyterian  graveyard  over-harbour.  His  people 
were  all  buried  in  the  Methodist  cemetery;  so  Alec 
Davis  went  back  to  his  own  in  death  and  his  widow 
consoled  herself  by  erecting  a  monument  which  cost 
more  than  any  of  the  Methodists  could  afford.  The 
Meredith  children  hated  it,  without  just  knowing  why, 
but  they  loved  the  old,  flat,  bench-like  stones  with  the 
tall  grasses  growing  rankly  about  them.  They  made 
jolly  seats  for  one  thing.  They  were  all  sitting  on 
one  now.  Jerry,  tired  of  leap  frog,  was  playing  on 
a  jews-harp.  Carl  was  lovingly  poring  over  a  strange 
beetle  he  had  found;  Una  was  trying  to  make  a  doll's 
dress,  and  Faith,  leaning  back  on  her  slender  brown 
wrists,  was  swinging  her  bare  feet  in  lively  time  to  the 
jews-harp. 

Jerry  had  his  father's  black  hair  and  large  black 
eyes,  but  in  him  the  latter  were  flashing  instead  of 
dreamy.  Faith,  who  came  next  to  him,  wore  her 
beauty  like  a  rose,  careless  and  glowing.  She  had 
golden-brown  eyes,  golden-brown  curls  and  crimson 
cheeks.  She  laughed  too  much  to  please  her  father's 
congregation  and  had  shocked  old  Mrs.  Taylor,  the 
disconsolate  spouse  of  several  departed  husbands,  by 


34  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

saucily  declaring, — in  the  church  porch  at  that, — "The 
world  isn't  a  vale  of  tears,  Mrs.  Taylor.  It's  a  world 
of  laughter." 

Little  dreamy  Una  was  not  given  to  laughter.  Her 
braids  of  straight,  dead-black  hair  betrayed  no  lawless 
kinks,  and  her  almond-shaped,  dark-blue  eyes  had 
something  wistful  and  sorrowful  in  them.  Her  mouth 
had  a  trick  of  falling  open  over  her  tiny  white  teeth, 
and  a  shy,  meditative  smile  occasionally  crept  over  her 
small  face.  She  was  much  more  sensitive  to  public 
opinion  than  Faith,  and  had  an  uneasy  consciousness 
that  there  was  something  askew  in  their  way  of  living. 
She  longed  to  put  it  right,  but  did  not  know  how. 
Now  and  then  she  dusted  the  furniture — but  it  was  so 
seldom  she  could  find  the  duster  because  it  was  never 
in  the  same  place  twice.  And  when  the  clothes  brush 
was  to  the  fore  she  tried  to  brush  her  father's  best  suit 
on  Saturdays,  and  once  sewed  on  a  missing  button 
with  coarse  white  thread.  When  Mr.  Meredith  went 
to  church  next  day  every  female  eye  saw  that  button 
and  the  peace  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  was  upset  for  weeks. 

Carl  had  the  clear,  bright,  dark-blue  eyes,  fearless 
and  direct,  of  his  dead  mother,  and  her  brown  hair 
with  its  glints  of  gold.  He  knew  the  secrets  of  bugs 
and  had  a  sort  of  freemasonry  with  bees  and  beetles. 
Una  never  liked  to  sit  near  him  because  she  never 
knew  what  uncanny  creature  might  be  secreted  about 
him.  Jerry  refused  to  sleep  with  him  because  Carl 
had  once  taken  a  young  garter  snake  to  bed  with  him ; 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  35 

so  Carl  slept  in  his  old  cot,  which  was  so  short  that 
he  could  never  stretch  out,  and  had  strange  bed-fellows. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that  Aunt  Martha  was 
half  blind  when  she  made  that  bed.  Altogether  they 
were  a  jolly,  lovable  little  crew,  and  Cecilia  Meredith's 
heart  must  have  ached  bitterly  when  she  faced  the 
knowledge  that  she  must  leave  them. 

"Where  would  you  like  to  be  buried  if  you  were  a 
Methodist?"  asked  Faith  cheerfully. 

This  opened  up  an  interesting  field  of  speculation. 

"There  isn't  much  choice.  The  place  is  full,"  said 
Jerry.  "I'd  like  that  corner  near  the  road,  I  guess.  I 
could  hear  the  teams  going  past  and  the  people  talking." 

"I'd  like  that  little  hollow  under  the  weeping  birch," 
said  Una.  "That  birch  is  such  a  place  for  birds  and 
they  sing  like  mad  in  the  mornings." 

"I'd  take  the  Porter  lot  where  there's  so  many  chil- 
dren buried.  7  like  lots  of  company,"  said  Faith. 
"Carl,  where'dyou?" 

"I'd  rather  not  be  buried  at  all,"  said  Carl,  "but  if 
I  had  to  be  I'd  like  the  ant-bed.  Ants  are  awfly 
int'resting." 

"How  very  good  all  the  people  who  are  buried  here 
must  have  been,"  said  Una,  who  had  been  reading  the 
laudatory  old  epitaphs.  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be  a 
single  bad  person  in  the  whole  graveyard.  Methodists 
must  be  better  than  Presbyterians  after  all." 

"Maybe  the  Methodists  bury  their  bad  people  just 
just  like  they  do  cats,"  suggested  Carl.  "Maybe  they 


36  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

don't  bother  bringing  them  to  the  graveyard  at  all." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Faith.  "The  people  that  are  buried 
here  weren't  any  better  than  other  folks,  Una.  But 
when  any  one  is  dead  you  mustn't  say  anything  of  him 
but  good  or  he'll  come  back  and  ha'nt  you.  Aunt 
Martha  told  me  that.  I  asked  father  if  it  was  true 
and  he  just  looked  through  me  and  muttered,  'True? 
True?  What  is  truth?  What  is  truth,  O  jesting 
Pilate?'  I  concluded  from  that  it  must  be  true.'" 

"I  wonder  if  Mr.  Alec  Davis  would  come  back  and 
ha'nt  me  if  I  threw  a  stone  at  the  urn  on  top  of  his 
tombstone,"  said  Jerry. 

"Mrs.  Davis  would,"  giggled  Faith.  "She  just 
watches  us  in  church  like  a  cat  watching  mice.  Last 
Sunday  I  made  a  face  at  her  nephew  and  he  made  one 
back  at  me  and  you  should  have  seen  her  glare.  I'll 
bet  she  boxed  his  ears  when  they  got  out.  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall Elliott  told  me  we  mustn't  offend  her  on  any 
account  or  I'd  have  made  a  face  at  her,  too !" 

"They  say  Jem  Blythe  stuck  out  his  tongue  at  her 
once  and  she  never  would  have  his  father  again,  even 
when  her  husband  was  dying,"  said  Jerry.  "I  wonder 
what  the  Blythe  gang  will  be  like." 

"I  liked  their  looks,"  said  Faith.  The  manse  chil- 
dren had  been  at  the  station  that  afternoon  when  the 
Blythe  small  fry  had  arrived.  "I  liked  Jem's  looks 
especially." 

"They  say  in  school  that  Walter's  a  sissy,"  said 
Jerry. 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  37 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Una,  who  had  thought 
Walter  very  handsome. 

"Well,  he  writes  poetry,  anyhow.  He  won  the  prize 
the  teacher  offered  last  year  for  writing  a  poem,  Bertie 
Shakespeare  Drew  told  me.  Bertie's  mother  thought 
he  should  have  got  the  prize  because  of  his  name,  but 
Bertie  said  he  couldn't  write  poetry  to  save  his  soul, 
name  or  no  name." 

"I  suppose  we'll  get  acquainted  with  them  as  soon 
as  they  begin  going  to  school,"  mused  Faith.  "I  hope 
the  girls  are  nice.  I  don't  like  most  of  the  girls  round 
here.  Even  the  nice  ones  are  poky.  But  the  Blythe 
twins  look  jolly.  I  thought  twins  always  looked  alike, 
but  they  don't.  I  think  the  red-haired  one  is  the  nicest." 

"I  liked  their  mother's  looks,"  said  Una  with  a  little 
sigh.  Una  envied  all  children  with  mothers.  She  had 
been  only  six  when  her  mother  died,  but  she  had  some 
very  precious  memories,  treasured  in  her  soul  like 
jewels,  of  twilight  cuddlings  and  morning  frolics,  of 
loving  eyes,  a  tender  voice,  and  the  sweetest,  gayest 
laugh. 

"They  say  she  isn't  like  other  people,"  said  Jerry. 

"Mrs.  Elliott  says  that  is  because  she  never  really 
grew  up,"  said  Faith. 

"She's  taller  than  Mrs.  Elliott." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  it  is  inside — Mrs.  Elliott  says  Mrs. 
Blythe  just  stayed  a  little  girl  inside." 

"What  do  I  smell  ?"  interrupted  Carl,  sniffing. 

They  all  smelled  it  now.    A  most  delectable  odour 


38  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

came  floating  up  on  the  still  evening  air  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  little  woodsy  dell  below  the  manse  hill. 

"That  makes  me  hungry,"  said  Jerry. 

"We  had  only  bread  and  molasses  for  supper  and 
cold  ditto  for  dinner,"  said  Una  plaintively. 

Aunt  Martha's  habit  was  to  boil  a  large  slab  of 
mutton  early  in  the  week  and  serve  it  up  every  day, 
cold  and  greasy,  as  long  as  it  lasted.  To  this  Faith,  in 
a  moment  of  inspiration,  had  given  the  name  of  "ditto" 
and  by  this  it  was  invariably  known  at  the  manse. 

"Let's  go  and  see  where  that  smell  is  coming  from," 
said  Jerry. 

They  all  sprang  up,  frolicked  over  the  lawn  with  the 
abandon  of  young  puppies,  climbed  a  fence,  and  tore 
down  the  mossy  slope,  guided  by  the  savory  lure  that 
ever  grew  stronger.  A  few  minutes  later  they  arrived 
breathlessly  in  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  Rainbow 
Valley  where  the  Blythe  children  were  just  about  to 
give  thanks  and  eat. 

They  halted  shyly.  Una  wished  they  had  not  been 
so  precipitate :  but  Di  Blythe  was  equal  to  that  and  any 
occasion.  She  stepped  forward,  with  a  comrade's 
smile. 

"I  guess  I  know  who  you  are,"  she  said.  "You 
belong  to  the  manse,  don't  you  ?" 

Faith  nodded,  her  face  creased  with  dimples. 

"We  smelled  your  trout  cooking  and  wondered  what 
it  was." 

"You  must  sit  down  and  help  us  eat  them,"  said  Di. 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  39 

"Maybe  you  haven't  more  than  you  want  your- 
selves," said  Jerry,  looking  hungrily  at  the  tin  platter. 

"We've  heaps — three  apiece,"  said  Jem.  "Sit 
down." 

No  more  ceremony  was  necessary.  Down  they  all 
sat  on  mossy  stones.  Merry  was  that  feast  and  long. 
Nan  and  Di  would  probably  have  died  of  horror  had 
they  known  what  Faith  and  Una  knew  perfectly  well — 
that  Carl  had  two  young  mice  in  his  jacket  pocket.  But 
they  never  knew  it,  so  it  never  hurt  them.  Where 
can  folks  get  better  acquainted  than  over  a  meal 
table?  When  the  last  trout  had  vanished,  the  manse 
children  and  the  Ingleside  children  were  sworn 
friends  and  allies.  They  had  always  known  each 
other  and  always  would.  The  race  of  Joseph  recog- 
nized its  own. 

They  poured  out  the  history  of  their  little  pasts. 
The  manse  children  heard  of  Avonlea  and  Green 
Gables,  of  Rainbow  Valley  traditions,  and  of  the  little 
house  by  the  harbour  shore  where  Jem  had  been  born. 
The  Ingleside  children  heard  of  May  water,  where  the 
Merediths  had  lived  before  coming  to  the  Glen,  of 
Una's  beloved,  one-eyed  doll  and  Faith's  pet  rooster. 

Faith  was  inclined  to  resent  the  fact  that  people 
laughed  at  her  for  petting  a  rooster.  She  liked  the 
Blythes  because  they  accepted  it  without  question. 

"A  handsome  rooster  like  Adam  is  just  as  nice  a  pet 
as  a  dog  or  cat,  /  think,"  she  said.  "If  he  was  a 
canary  nobody  would  wonder.  And  I  brought  him 


40  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

up  from  a  little,  wee,  yellow  chicken.  Mrs.  Johnson 
at  Maywater  gave  him  to  me.  A  weasel  had  killed  all 
his  brothers  and  sisters.  I  called  him  after  her  hus- 
band. I  never  liked  dolls  or  cats.  Cats  are  too  sneaky 
and  dolls  are  dead." 

"Who  lives  in  that  house  away  up  there?"  asked 
Jerry. 

"The  Miss  Wests — Rosemary  and  Ellen,"  answered 
Nan.  "Di  and  I  are  going  to  take  music  lessons  from 
Miss  Rosemary  this  summer." 

Una  gazed  at  the  lucky  twins  with  eyes  whose  long- 
ing was  too  gentle  for  envy.  Oh,  if  she  could  only 
have  music  lessons!  It  was  one  of  the  dreams  of  her 
little  hidden  life.  But  nobody  ever  thought  of  such  a 
thing. 

"Miss  Rosemary  is  so  sweet  and  she  always  dresses 
so  pretty,"  said  Di.  "Her  hair  is  just  the  colour  of 
new  molasses  taffy,"  she  added  wistfully — for  Di,  like 
her  mother  before  her,  was  not  resigned  to  her  own 
ruddy  tresses. 

"I  like  Miss  Ellen,  too,"  said  Nan.  "She  always 
used  to  give  me  candies  when  she  came  to  church. 
But  Di  is  afraid  of  her." 

"Her  brows  are  so  black  and  she  has  such  a  great 
deep  voice,"  said  Di.  "Oh,  how  scared  of  her  Ken- 
neth Ford  used  to  be  when  he  was  little !  Mother  says 
the  first  Sunday  Mrs.  Ford  brought  him  to  church 
Miss  Ellen  happened  to  be  there,  sitting  right  behind 
them.  And  the  minute  Kenneth  saw  her  he  just 


THE  MANSE  CHILDREN  41 

screamed  and  screamed  until  Mrs.  Ford  had  to  carry 
him  out." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Ford  ?"  asked  Una  wonderingly. 

"Oh,  the  Fords  don't  live  here.  They  only  come 
here  in  the  summer.  And  they're  not  coming  this 
summer.  They  live  in  that  little  house  'way,  'way 
down  on  the  harbour  shore  where  father  and  mother 
used  to  live.  I  wish  you  could  see  Persis  Ford.  She 
is  just  like  a  picture." 

"I've  heard  of  Mrs.  Ford,"  broke  in  Faith.  "Bertie 
Shakespeare  Drew  told  me  about  her.  She  was  mar- 
ried fourteen  years  to  a  dead  man  and  then  he  came 
to  life." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Nan.  "That  isn't  the  way  of  it 
at  all.  Bertie  Shakespeare  can  never  get  anything 
straight.  I  know  the  whole  story  and  I'll  tell  it  to  you 
some  time,  but  not  now,  for  it's  too  long  and  it's  time 
for  us  to  go  home.  Mother  doesn't  like  us  to  be  out 
late  these  damp  evenings." 

Nobody  cared  whether  the  manse  children  were  out 
in  the  damp  or  not.  Aunt  Martha  was  already  in  bed 
and  the  minister  was  still  too  deeply  lost  in  speculations 
concerning  the  immortality  of  the  soul  to  remember 
the  mortality  of  the  body.  But  they  went  home,  too, 
with  visions  of  good  times  coming  in  their  heads. 

"I  think  Rainbow  Valley  is  even  nicer  than  the 
graveyard,"  said  Una.  "And  I  just  love  those  dear 
Blythes.  It's  so  nice  when  you  can  love  people  because 
so  often  you  can't.  Father  said  in  his  sermon  last 


42  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Sunday  that  we  should  love  everybody.  But  how  can 
we  ?  How  could  we  love  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  ?" 

"Oh,  father  only  said  that  in  the  pulpit,"  said  Faith 
airily.  "He  has  more  sense  than  to  really  think  it  out- 
side." 

The  Blythe  children  went  up  to  Ingleside,  except 
Jem,  who  slipped  away  for  a  few  moments  on  a  soli- 
tary expedition  to  a  remote  corner  of  Rainbow  Valley. 
Mayflowers  grew  there  and  Jem  never  forgot  to  take 
his  mother  a  bouquet  as  long  as  they  lasted. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE 


"^T^HIS  is  just  the  sort  of  day  you  feel  as  if  things 

JL  might  happen,"  said  Faith,  responsive  to  the 
lure  of  crystal  air  and  blue  hills.  She  hugged  herself 
with  delight  and  danced  a  hornpipe  on  old  Hezekiah 
Pollock's  bench  tombstone,  much  to  the  horror  of  two 
ancient  maidens  who  happened  to  be  driving  past  just 
as  Faith  hopped  on  one  foot  around  the  stone,  waving 
the  other  and  her  arms  in  the  air. 

"And  that,"  groaned  one  ancient  maiden,  "is  our 
minister's  daughter." 

"What  else  could  you  expect  of  a  widower's 
family  ?"  groaned  the  other  ancient  maiden.  And  then 
they  both  shook  their  heads. 

It  was  early  on  Saturday  morning  and  the  Merediths 
were  out  in  the  dew-drenched  world  with  a  delightful 
consciousness  of  the  holiday.  They  had  never  had 
anything  to  do  on  a  holiday.  Even  Nan  and  Di  Blythe 
had  certain  household  tasks  for  Saturday  mornings, 
but  the  daughters  of  the  manse  were  free  to  roam  from 
blushing  morn  to  dewy  eve  if  so  it  pleased  them.  It 
did  please  Faith,  but  Una  felt  a  secret,  bitter  humilia- 
tion because  they  never  learned  to  do  anything.  The 
other  girls  in  her  class  at  school  could  cook  and  sew 
and  knit  ;  she  only  was  a  little  ignoramus. 

43 


44  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Jerry  suggested  that  they  go  exploring ;  so  they  went 
lingeringly  through  the  fir  grove,  picking  up  Carl  on 
the  way,  who  was  on  his  knees  in  the  dripping  grass 
studying  his  darling  ants.  Beyond  the  grove  they  came 
out  in  Mr.  Taylor's  pasture  field,  sprinkled  over  with 
the  white  ghosts  of  dandelions;  in  a  remote  corner 
was  an  old  tumbledown  barn,  where  Mr.  Taylor  some- 
times stored  his  surplus  hay  crop  but  which  was  never 
used  for  any  other  purpose.  Thither  the  Meredith 
children  trooped,  and  prowled  about  the  ground  floor 
for  several  minutes. 

"What  was  that  ?"  whispered  Una  suddenly. 

They  all  listened.  There  was  a  faint  but  distinct 
rustle  in  the  hayloft  above.  The  Merediths  looked 
at  each  other. 

"There's  something  up  there,"  breathed  Faith. 

"I'm  going  up  to  see  what  it  is,"  said  Jerry  reso- 
lutely. 

"Oh,  don't,"  begged  Una,  catching  his  arm. 

"I'm  going.'; 

"We'll  all  go,  too,  then,"  said  Faith. 

The  whole  four  climbed  the  shaky  ladder,  Jerry  and 
Faith  quite  dauntless,  Una  pale  from  fright,  and  Carl 
rather  absent-mindedly  speculating  on  the  possibility 
of  finding  a  bat  up  in  the  loft.  He  longed  to  see  a  bat 
in  daylight. 

When  they  stepped  off  the  ladder  they  saw  what 
had  made  the  rustle  and  the  sight  struck  them  dumb 
for  a  few  moments. 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE      45 

In  a  little  nest  in  the  hay  a  girl  was  curled  up,  look- 
ing as  if  she  had  just  awakened  from  sleep.  When 
she  saw  them  she  stood  up,  rather  shakily,  as  it  seemed, 
and  in  the  bright  sunlight  that  streamed  through  the 
cobwebbed  window  behind  her,  they  saw  that  her 
thin,  sunburned  face  was  very  pale  under  its  tan.  She 
had  two  braids  of  lank,  thick,  tow-coloured  hair  and 
very  odd  eyes — "white  eyes,"  the  manse  children 
thought,  as  she  stared  at  them  half  defiantly,  half 
piteously.  They  were  really  of  so  pale  a  blue  that  they 
did  seem  almost  white,  especially  when  contrasted  with 
the  narrow  black  ring  that  circled  the  iris.  She  was 
barefooted  and  bareheaded,  and  was  clad  in  a  faded, 
ragged,  old  plaid  dress,  much  too  short  and  tight  for 
her.  As  for  years,  she  might  have  been  almost  any 
age,  judging  from  her  wizened  little  face,  but  her 
height  seemed  to  be  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  twelve. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Jerry. 

The  girl  looked  about  her  as  if  seeking  a  way  of 
escape.  Then  she  seemed  to  give  in  with  a  little  shiver 
of  despair. 

"I'm  Mary  Vance,"  she  said. 

"Where'd  you  come  from  ?"  pursued  Jerry. 

Mary,  instead  of  replying,  suddenly  sat,  or  fell, 
down  on  the  hay  and  began  to  cry.  Instantly  Faith 
had  flung  herself  down  beside  her  and  put  her  arm 
about  the  thin,  shaking  shoulders. 

"You  stop  bothering  her,"  she  commanded  Jerry. 


46  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Then  she  hugged  the  waif.  "Don't  cry,  dear.  Just 
tell  us  what's  the  matter.  We're,  friends." 

"I'm  so — so — hungry,"  wailed  Mary.  "I — I  haint 
had  a  thing  to  eat  since  Thursday  morning,  'cept  a 
little  water  from  the  brook  out  there." 

The  manse  children  gazed  at  each  other  in  horror. 
Faith  sprang  up. 

"You  come  right  up  to  the  manse  and  get  something 
to  eat  before  you  say  another  word." 

Mary  shrank. 

"Oh, — I  can't.  What  will  your  pa  and  ma  say? 
Besides,  they'd  send  me  back." 

"We've  no  mother,  and  father  won't  bother  about 
you.  Neither  will  Aunt  Martha.  Come,  I  say." 
Faith  stamped  her  foot  impatiently.  Was  this  queer 
girl  going  to  insist  on  starving  to  death  almost  at  their 
very  door? 

Mary  yielded.  She  was  so  weak  that  she  could 
hardly  climb  down  the  ladder,  but  somehow  they  got 
her  down  and  over  the  field  and  into  the  manse  kitchen. 
Aunt  Martha,  muddling  through  her  Saturday  cook- 
ing, took  no  notice  of  her.  Faith  and  Una  flew  to  the 
pantry  and  ransacked  it  for  such  eatabies  as  it  con- 
tained— some  "ditto,"  bread,  butter,  milk  and  a  doubt- 
ful pie.  Mary  Vance  attacked  the  food  ravenously 
and  uncritically,  while  the  manse  children  stood 
around  and  watched  her.  Jerry  noticed  that  she  had  a 
pretty  mouth  and  very  nice,  even,  white  teeth.  Faith 
decided,  with  secret  horror,  that  Mary  had  not  one 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     47 

stitch  on  her  except  that  ragged,  faded  dress.  Una 
was  full  of  pure  pity,  Carl  of  amused  wonder,  and  all 
of  them  of  curiosity. 

"Now  come  out  to  the  graveyard  and  tell  us  about 
yourself,"  ordered  Faith,  when  Mary's  appetite  showed 
signs  of  failing  her.  Mary  was  now  nothing  loth. 
Food  had  restored  her  natural  vivacity  and  unloosed 
her  by  no  means  reluctant  tongue. 

"You  won't  tell  your  pa  or  anybody  if  I  tell  you?" 
she  stipulated,  when  she  was  enthroned  on  Mr.  Pol- 
lock's tombstone.  Opposite  her  the  manse  children 
lined  up  on  another.  Here  was  spice  and  mystery  and 
adventure.  Something  had  happened. 

"No,  we  won't." 

"Cross  your  hearts  ?" 

"Cross  our  hearts." 

"Well,  I've  run  away.  I  was  living  with  Mrs.  Wiley 
over-harbour.  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Wiley  ?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  don't  want  to  know  her.  She's  an  awful 
woman.  My,  how  I  hate  her!  She  worked  me  to 
death  and  wouldn't  give  me  half  enough  to  eat,  and 
she  used  to  larrup  me  'most  every  day.  Look  a-here." 

Mary  rolled  up  her  ragged  sleeves  and  held  up  her 
scrawny  arms  and  thin  hands,  chapped  almost  to  raw- 
ness. They  were  black  with  bruises.  The  manse  chil- 
dren shivered.  Faith  flushed  crimson  with  indignation. 
Una's  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"She  licked  me  Wednesday  night  with  a  stick,"  said 


48  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Mary,  indifferently.  "It  was  'cause  I  let  the  cow  kick 
over  a  pail  of  milk.  How'd  I  know  the  darn  old  cow 
was  going  to  kick  ?" 

A  not  unpleasant  thrill  ran  over  her  listeners.  They 
would  never  dream  of  using  such  dubious  words,  but 
it  was  rather  titivating  to  hear  some  one  else  use  them 
— and  a  girl,  at  that.  Certainly  this  Mary  Vance  was 
an  interesting  creature. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  running  away,"  said  Faith. 

"Oh,  1  didn't  run  away  'cause  she  licked  me.  A 
licking  was  all  in  the  day's  work  with  me.  I  was  darn 
well  used  to  it.  Nope,  I'd  meant  to  run  away  for  a 
week  'cause  I'd  found  out  that  Mrs.  Wiley  was  going 
to  rent  her  farm  and  go  to  Lowbridge  to  live  and  give 
me  to  a  cousin  of  hers  up  Charlottetown  way.  I 
wasn't  going  to  stand  for  that.  She  was  a  worse  sort 
than  Mrs.  Wiley  even.  Mrs.  Wiley  lent  me  to  her  for 
a  month  last  summer  and  I'd  rather  live  with  the  devil 
himself." 

Sensation  number  two.    But  Una  looked  doubtful. 

"So  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  beat  it.  I  had  seventy 
cents  saved  up  that  Mrs.  John  Crawford  give  me  in 
the  spring  for  planting  potatoes  for  her.  Mrs.  Wiley 
didn't  know  about  it.  She  was  away  visiting  her 
cousin  when  I  planted  them.  I  thought  I'd  sneak  up 
here  to  the  Glen  and  buy  a  ticket  to  Charlottetown  and 
try  to  get  work  there.  I'm  a  hustler,  let  me  tell  you. 
There  ain't  a  lazy  bone  in  my  body.  So  I  lit  out  Thurs- 
day morning  'fore  Mrs.  Wiley  was  up  and  walked  to 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     49 

the  Glen — six  miles.  And  when  I  got  to  the  station 
I  found  I'd  lost  my  money.  Dunno  how — dunno 
where.  Anyhow,  it  was  gone.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  If  I  went  back  to  old  Lady  Wiley  she'd  take 
the  hide  off  me.  So  I  went  and  hid  in  that  old 
barn." 

"And  what  will  you  do  now  ?"  asked  Jerry. 

"Dunno.  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  go  back  and  take  my 
medicine.  Now  that  I've  got  some  grub  in  my  stomach 
I  guess  I  can  stand  it." 

But  there  was  fear  behind  the  bravado  in  Mary's 
eyes.  Una  suddenly  slipped  from  the  one  tombstone 
to  the  other  and  put  her  arm  about  Mary. 

"Don't  go  back.    Just  stay  here  with  us." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Wiley'll  hunt  me  up,"  said  Mary.  "It's 
likely  she's  on  my  trail  before  this.  I  might  stay  here 
till  she  finds  me,  I  s'pose,  if  your  folks  don't  mind. 
I  was  a  darn  fool  ever  to  think  of  skipping  out.  She'd 
run  a  weasel  to  earth.  But  I  was  so  misrebul." 

Mary's  voice  quivered,  but  she  was  ashamed  of 
showing  her  weakness. 

"I  hain't  had  the  life  of  a  dog  for  these  four  years," 
she  explained  defiantly. 

"You've  been  four  years  with  Mrs.  Wiley  ?" 

"Yip.  She  took  me  out  of  the  asylum  over  in  Hope- 
town  when  I  was  eight." 

"That's  the  same  place  Mrs.  Blythe  came  from," 
exclaimed  Faith. 

"I  was  two  years  in  the  asylum.    I  was  put  there 


50  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

when  I  was  six.  My  ma  had  hung  herself  and  my 
pa  had  cut  his  throat." 

"Holy  cats!    Why?"  said  Jerry. 

"Booze,"  said  Mary  laconically. 

"And  you've  no  relations  ?" 

"Not  a  darn  one  that  I  know  of.  Must  have  had 
some  once,  though.  I  was  called  after  half  a  dozen 
of  them.  My  full  name  is  Mary  Martha  Lucilla  Moore 
Ball  Vance.  Can  you  beat  that  ?  My  grandfather  was 
a  rich  man.  I'll  bet  he  was  richer  than  your  grand- 
father. But  pa  drunk  it  all  up  and  ma,  she  did  her 
part.  They  used  to  beat  me,  too.  Laws,  I've  been 
licked  so  much  I  kind  of  like  it." 

Mary  tossed  her  head.  She  divined  that  the  manse 
children  were  pitying  her  for  her  many  stripes  and  she 
did  not  want  pity.  She  wanted  to  be  envied.  She 
looked  gaily  about  her.  Her  strange  eyes,  now  that 
the  dullness  of  famine  was  removed  from  them,  were 
brilliant.  She  would  show  these  youngsters  what  a 
personage  she  was. 

"I've  been  sick  an  awful  lot,"  she  said  proudly. 
"There's  not  many  kids  could  have  come  through 
what  I  have.  I've  had  scarlet  fever  and  measles  and 
ersipelas  and  mumps  and  whooping  cough  and  pew- 
monia." 

"Were  you  ever  fatally  sick?"  asked  Una. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary  doubtfully. 

"Of  course  she  wasn't."  scoffed  Jerry.  "If  you're 
fatally  sick  you  die." 


"Oh,  well,  I  never  died  exactly,"  said  Mary,  "but 
I  come  blamed  near  it  once.  They  thought  I  was  dead 
and  they  were  getting  ready  to  lay  me  out  when  I  up 
and  come  to." 

"What  is  it  like  to  be  half  dead?"  asked  Jerry  curi- 
ously. 

"Like  nothing.  I  didn't  know  it  for  days  after- 
wards. It  was  when  I  had  the  pewmonia.  Mrs.  Wiley 
wouldn't  have  the  doctor — said  she  wasn't  going  to 
no  such  expense  for  a  home  girl.  Old  Aunt  Christina 
McAllister  nursed  me  with  poultices.  She  brung  me 
round.  But  sometimes  I  wish  I'd  just  died  the  other 
half  and  done  with  it.  I'd  been  better  off." 

"If  you  went  to  heaven  I  s'pose  you  would,"  said 
Faith  rather  dubiously. 

"Well,  what  other  place  is  there  to  go  to?"  de- 
manded Mary  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

"There's  hell,  you  know,"  said  Una,  dropping  her 
voice  and  hugging  Mary  to  lessen  the  aw  fulness  of  the 
suggestion. 

"Hell?    What's  that?" 

"Why,  it's  where  the  devil  lives,"  said  Jerry. 
"You've  heard  of  him — you  spoke  about  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  I  didn't  know  he  lived  anywhere.  I 
thought  he  just  roamed  round.  Mr.  Wiley  used  to 
mention  hell  when  he  was  alive.  He  was  always  tell- 
ing folks  to  go  there.  I  thought  it  was  some  place  over 
in  New  Brunswick  where  he  come  from." 

"Hell  is  an  awful  place,"  said  Faith,  with  the  dra- 


52  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

matic  enjoyment  that  is  born  of  telling  dreadful  things. 
"Bad  people  go  there  when  they  die  and  burn  in  fire 
for  ever  and  ever  and  ever." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  demanded  Mary  incredu- 
lously. 

"It's  in  the  Bible.  And  Mr.  Isaac  Crothers  at  May- 
water  told  us,  too,  in  Sunday  School.  He  was  an  elder 
and  a  pillar  in  the  church  and  knew  all  about  it.  But 
you  needn't  worry.  If  you're  good  you'll  go  to  heaven 
and  if  you're  bad  I  guess  you'd  rather  go  to  hell." 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Mary  positively.  "No  matter 
how  bad  I  was  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  burned  and 
burned.  I  know  what  it's  like.  I  picked  up  a  red  hot 
poker  once  by  accident.  What  must  you  do  to  be 
good?" 

"You  must  go  to  church  and  Sunday  School  and 
read  your  Bible  and  pray  every  night  and  give  to  mis- 
sions," said  Una. 

"It  sounds  like  a  large  order,"  said  Mary.  "Any- 
thing else?" 

"You  must  ask  God  to  forgive  the  sins  you've  com- 
mitted." 

"But  I've  never  com — committed  any,"  said  Mary. 
"What's  a  sin  any  way  ?" 

"Oh,  Mary,  you  must  have.  Everybody  does.  Did 
you  never  tell  a  lie  ?" 

"Heaps  of  'em,"  said  Mary. 

"That's  a  dreadful  sin,"  said  Una  solemnly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  demanded  Mary,  "that 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     53 

I'd  be  sent  to  hell  for  telling  a  lie  now  and  then  ?  Why, 
I  had  to.  Mr.  Wiley  would  have  broken  every  bone 
in  my  body  one  time  if  I  hadn't  told  him  a  lie.  Lies 
have  saved  me  many  a  whack,  I  can  tell  you." 

Una  sighed.  Here  were  too  many  difficulties  for 
her  to  solve.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  being 
cruelly  whipped.  Very  likely  she  would  have  lied  too. 
She  squeezed  Mary's  little  calloused  hand. 

"Is  that  the  only  dress  you've  got?"  asked  Faith, 
whose  joyous  nature  refused  to  dwell  on  disagreeable 
subjects. 

"I  just  put  on  this  dress  because  it  was  no  good," 
cried  Mary  flushing.  "Mrs.  Wiley'd  bought  my  clothes 
and  I  wasn't  going  to  be  beholden  to  her  for  anything. 
And  I'm  honest.  If  I  was  going  to  run  away  I  wasn't 
going  to  take  what  belonged  to  her  that  was  worth  any- 
thing. When  I  grow  up  I'm  going  to  have  a  blue 
sating  dress.  Your  own  clothes  don't  look  so  stylish. 
I  thought  minister's  children  were  always  dressed  up." 

It  was  plain  that  Mary  had  a  temper  and  was  sensi- 
tive on  some  points.  But  there  was  a  queer,  wild 
charm  about  her  which  captivated  them  all.  She  was 
taken  to  Rainbow  Valley  that  afternoon  and  intro- 
duced to  the  Blythes  as  "a  friend  of  ours  from  over 
harbour  who  is  visiting  us."  The  Blythes  accepted  her 
unquestioningly,  perhaps  because  she  was  outwardly 
fairly  respectable  now.  After  dinner — through  which 
Aunt  Martha  had  mumbled  and  Mr.  Meredith  had 
been  in  a  state  of  semi-unconsciousness  while  brooding 


54  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

his  Sunday  sermon — Faith  had  prevailed  on  Mary  to 
put  on  one  of  her  dresses,  as  well  as  certain  other 
articles  of  clothing.  With  her  hair  neatly  braided 
Mary  passed  muster  tolerably  well.  She  was  an  ac- 
ceptable playmate,  for  she  knew  several  new  and  ex- 
citing games,  and  her  conversation  lacked  not  spice. 
In  fact,  some  of  her  expressions  made  Nan  and  Di 
look  at  her  rather  askance.  They  were  not  quite  sure 
what  their  mother  would  have  thought  of  her,  but 
they  knew  quite  well  what  Susan  would.  However, 
she  was  a  visitor  at  the  manse,  so  she  must  be  all  right. 

When  bedtime  came  there  was  the  problem  of  where 
Mary  should  sleep. 

"We  can't  put  her  in  the  spare  room,  you  know," 
said  Faith  perplexedly  to  Una. 

"I  haven't  got  anything  in  my  head,"  cried  Mary  in 
an  injured  tone. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that"  protested  Faith.  "The 
spare  room  is  all  torn  up.  The  mice  have  gnawed  a 
big  hole  in  the  feather  tick  and  made  a  nest  in  it.  We 
never  found  it  out  till  Aunt  Martha  put  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Fisher  from  Charlottetown  there  to  sleep  last  week. 
He  soon  found  it  out.  Then  father  had  to  give  him 
his  bed  and  sleep  on  the  study  lounge.  Aunt  Martha 
hasn't  had  time  to  fix  the  spare  room  bed  up  yet,  so 
she  says;  so  nobody  can  sleep  there,  no  matter  how 
clean  their  heads  are.  And  our  room  is  so  small,  and 
the  bed  so  small  you  can't  sleep  with  us." 

"I  can  go  back  to  the  hay  in  the  old  barn  for  the 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     $$ 

night  if  you'll  lend  me  a  quilt,"  said  Mary  philosophi- 
cally. "It  was  kind  of  chilly  last  night,  but  'cept  for 
that  I've  had  worse  beds." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  you  mustn't  do  that,"  said  Una.  "I've 
thought  of  a  plan,  Faith.  You  know  that  little  trestle 
bed  in  the  garret  room,  with  the  old  mattress  on  it,, 
that  the  last  minister  left  there?  Let's  take  up  the 
spare  room  bedclothes  and  make  Mary  a  bed  there. 
You  won't  mind  sleeping  in  the  garret,  will  you,  Mary  ? 
It's  just  above  our  room." 

"Any  place'll  do  me.  Laws,  I  never  had  a  decent 
place  to  sleep  in  in  my  life.  I  slept  in  the  loft  over 
the  kitchen  at  Mrs.  Wiley's.  The  roof  leaked  rain  in 
summer  and  the  snow  druv  in  in  winter.  My  bed  was 
a  straw  tick  on  the  floor.  You  won't  find  me  a  mite 
huffy  about  where  /  sleep." 

The  manse"  garret  was  a  long,  low,  shadowy  place, 
with  one  gable  end  partitioned  off.  Here  a  bed  was 
made  up  for  Mary  of  the  dainty  hemstitched  sheets 
and  embroidered  spread  which  Cecilia  Meredith  had 
once  so  proudly  made  for  her  spare  room,  and  which 
still  survived  Aunt  Martha's  uncertain  washings.  The 
goodnights  were  said  and  silence  fell  over  the  manse. 
Una  was  just  falling  asleep  when  she  heard  a  sound 
in  the  room  just  above  that  made  her  sit  up  suddenly. 

"Listen,  Faith — Mary's  crying,"  she  whispered. 
Faith  replied  not,  being  already  asleep.  Una  slipped 
out  of  bed,  and  made  her  way  in  her  little  white  gown 
down  the  hall  and  up  the  garret  stairs.  The  creaking 


56  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

garret  floor  gave  ample  notice  of  her  coming,  and  when 
she  reached  the  corner  room  all  was  moonlit  silence 
and  the  trestle  bed  showed  only  a  hump  in  the  middle. 

"Mary,"  whispered  Una. 

There  was  no  response. 

Una  crept  close  to  the  bed  and  pulled  at  the  spread. 
"Mary,  I  know  you  are  crying.  I  heard  you.  Are 
you  lonesome?" 

Mary  suddenly  appeared  to  view  but  said  nothing. 

"Let  me  in  beside  you.  I'm  cold,"  said  Una  shiver- 
ing in  the  chilly  air,  for  the  little  garret  window  was 
open  and  the  keen  breath  of  the  north  shore  at  night 
blew  in. 

Mary  moved  over  and  Una  snuggled  down  beside 
her. 

"Now  you  won't  be  lonesome.  We  shouldn't  have 
left  you  here  alone  the  first  night." 

"I  wasn't  lonesome,"  sniffed  Mary. 

"What  were  you  crying  for  then  ?" 

"Oh,  I  just  got  to  thinking  of  things  when  I  was 
here  alone.  I  thought  of  having  to  go  back  to  Mrs. 
Wiley — and  of  being  licked  for  running  away — and — 
and — and  of  going  to  hell  for  telling  lies.  It  all  wor- 
ried me  something  scandalous." 

"Oh,  Mary,"  said  poor  Una  in  distress.  "I  don't 
believe  God  will  send  you  to  hell  for  telling  lies  when 
you  didn't  know  it  was  wrong.  He  couldn't.  Why, 
He's  kind  and  good.  Of  course,  you  mustn't  tell  any 
more  now  that  you  know  it's  wrong." 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     57 

"If  I  can't  tell  lies  what's  to  become  of  me?"  said 
Mary  with  a  sob.  "You  don't  understand.  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  You  got  a  home  and  a  kind 
father — though  it  does  seem  to  me  that  he  isn't  more'n 
about  half  there.  But  anyway  he  doesn't  lick  you,  and 
you  get  enough  to  eat  such  as  it  is — though  that  old 
aunt  of  yours  doesn't  know  anything  about  cooking. 
Why,  this  is  the  first  day  I  ever  remember  of  feeling 
'sif  I'd  enough  to  eat.  I've  been  knocked  about  all  my 
life,  'cept  for  the  two  years  I  was  at  the  asylum.  They 
didn't  lick  me  there  and  it  wasn't  too  bad,  though  the 
matron  was  cross.  She  always  looked  ready  to  bite 
the  head  off  a  nail.  But  Mrs.  Wiley  is  a  holy  terror, 
that's  what  she  is,  and  I'm  just  scared  stiff  when  I 
think  of  going  back  to  her." 

"Perhaps  you  won't  have  to.  Perhaps  we'll  be  able 
to  think  of  a  way  out.  Let's  both  ask  God  to  keep  you 
from  having  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Wiley.  You  say  your 
prayers,  don't  you  Mary?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  always  go  over  an  old  rhyme  'fore  I 
get  into  bed,"  said  Mary  indifferently.  "I  never 
thought  of  asking  for  anything  in  particular  though. 
Nobody  in  this  world  ever  bothered  themselves  about 
me  so  I  didn't  s'pose  God  would.  He  might  take  more 
trouble  for  you,  seeing  you're  a  minister's  daughter." 

"He'd  take  every  bit  as  much  trouble  for  you,  Mary, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Una.  "It  doesn't  matter  whose  child 
you  are.  You  just  ask  Him — and  I  will,  too." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Mary.     "It  won't  do  any  harm 


58  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

if  it  doesn't  do  much  good.  If  you  knew  Mrs.  Wiley 
as  well  as  I  do  you  wouldn't  think  God  would  want  to 
meddle  with  her.  Anyhow,  I  won't  cry  any  more 
about  it.  This  is  a  big  sight  better'n  last  night  down 
in  that  old  barn,  with  the  mice  running  about.  Look 
at  the  Four  Winds  light.  Ain't  it  pretty?" 

"This  is  the  only  window  we  can  see  it  from,"  said 
Una.  "I  love  to  watch  it." 

"Do  you  ?  So  do  I.  I  could  see  it  from  the  Wiley 
loft  and  it  was  the  only  comfort  I  had.  When  I  was 
all  sore  from  being  licked  I'd  watch  it  and  forget  about 
the  places  that  hurt.  I'd  think  of  the  ships  sailing 
away  and  away  from  it  and  wish  I  was  on  one  of  them 
sailing  far  away  too — away  from  everything.  In  win- 
ter nights  when  it  didn't  shine,  I  just  felt  real  lone- 
some. Say,  Una,  what  makes  all  you  folks  so  kind  to 
me  when  I'm  just  a  stranger?" 

"Because  it's  right  to  be.  The  Bible  tells  us  to  be 
kind  to  everybody." 

"Does  it?  Well,  I  guess  most  folks  don't  mind  it 
much  then.  I  never  remember  of  any  one  being  kind 
to  me  before — true's  you  live  I  don't.  Say,  Una,  ain't 
them  shadows  on  the  wall  pretty?  They  look  just  like 
a  flock  of  little  dancing  birds.  And  say,  Una,  I  like 
all  you  folks  and  them  Blythe  boys  and  Di,  but  I 
don't  like  that  Nan.  She's  a  proud  one." 

"Oh,  no,  Mary,  she  isn't  a  bit  proud,"  said  Una 
eagerly.  "Not  a  single  bit." 


THE  ADVENT  OF  MARY  VANCE     59 

"Don't  tell  me.  Any  one  that  holds  her  head  like 
that  is  proud.  I  don't  like  her." 

"We  all  like  her  very  much." 

"Oh,  I  s'pose  you  like  her  better'n  me?"  said  Mary 
jealously.  "Do  you?" 

"Why,  Mary — we've  known  her  for  weeks  and 
we've  only  known  you  a  few  hours,"  stammered  Una. 

"So  you  do  like  her  better  then?"  said  Mary  in  a 
rage.  "All  right !  Like  her  all  you  want  to.  /  don't 
care.  I  can  get  along  without  you." 

She  flung  herself  over  against  the  wall  of  the  garret 
with  a  slam. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  said  Una,  pushing  a  tender  arm  over 
Mary's  uncompromising  back,  "don't  talk  like  that.  I 
do  like  you  ever  so  much.  And  you  make  me  feel  so 
bad." 

No  answer.  Presently  Una  gave  a  sob.  Instantly 
Mary  squirmed  around  again  and  engulfed  Una  in  a 
bear's  hug. 

"Hush  up,"  she  ordered.  "Don't  go  crying  over 
what  I  said.  I  was  as  mean  as  the  devil  to  talk  that 
way.  I  orter  to  be  skinned  alive — and  you  all  so  good 
to  me.  I  should  think  you  would  like  any  one  better'n 
me.  I  deserve  every  licking  I  ever  got.  Hush,  now. 
If  you  cry  any  more  I'll  go  and  walk  right  down  to 
the  harbour  in  this  night  dress  and  drown  myself." 

This  terrible  threat  made  Una  choke  back  her  sobs. 
Her  tears  were  wiped  away  by  Mary  with  the  lace  frill 


60  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

of  the  spare  room  pillow  and  forgiver  and  forgiven 
cuddled  down  together  again,  harmony  restored,  to 
watch  the  shadows  of  the  vine  leaves  on  the  moonlit 
wall  until  they  fell  asleep. 

And  in  the  study  below  the  Rev.  John  Meredith 
walked  the  floor  with  rapt  face  and  shining  eyes,  think- 
ing out  his  message  of  the  morrow,  and  knew  not  that 
under  his  own  roof  there  was  a  little  forlorn  soul, 
stumbling  in  darkness  and  ignorance,  beset  by  terror 
and  compassed  about  with  difficulties  too  great  for  it 
to  grapple  in  its  unequal  struggle  with  a  big  indifferent 
world. 


CHAPTER  VI 
MARY  STAYS  AT  THE  MANSE 

THE  manse  children  took  Mary  Vance  to  church 
with  them  the  next  day.  At  first  Mary  objected 
to  the  idea. 

"Didn't  you  go  to  church  over-harbour?"  asked  Una. 

"You  bet.  Mrs.  Wiley  never  troubled  church  much, 
but  1  went  every  Sunday  I  could  get  off.  I  was  mighty 
thankful  to  go  to  some  place  where  I  could  sit  down 
for  a  spell.  But  I  can't  go  to  church  in  this  old  ragged 
dress." 

This  difficulty  was  removed  by  Faith  offering  the 
loan  of  her  second  best  dress. 

"It's  faded  a  little  and  two  of  the  buttons  are  off, 
but  I  guess  it'll  do." 

"I'll  sew  the  buttons  on  in  a  jiffy,"  said  Mary. 

"Not  on  Sunday,"  said  Una,  shocked. 

"Sure.  The  better  the  day  the  better  the  deed.  You 
just  gimme  a  needle  and  thread  and  look  the  other  way 
if  you're  squeamish." 

Faith's  school  boots,  and  an  old  black  velvet  cap 
that  had  once  been  Cecilia  Meredith's,  completed 
Mary's  costume,  and  to  church  she  went.  Her  be- 
haviour was  quite  conventional,  and  though  some  won- 
dered who  the  shabby  little  girl  with  the  manse  chil- 

61 


62  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

dren  was  she  did  not  attract  much  attention.  She 
listened  to  the  sermon  with  outward  decorum  and 
joined  lustily  in  the  singing.  She  had,  it  appeared,  a 
clear,  strong  voice  and  a  good  ear. 

"His  blood  can  make  the  violets  clean,"  carolled 
Mary  blithely.  Mrs.  Jimmy  Milgrave,  whose  pew  was 
just  in  front  of  the  manse  pew,  turned  suddenly  and 
looked  the  child  over  from  top  to  toe.  Mary,  in  a  mere 
superfluity  of  naughtiness,  stuck  her  tongue  out  at 
Mrs.  Milgrave,  much  to  Una's  horror. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  she  declared  after  church. 
"What'd  she  want  to  stare  at  me  like  that  for?  Such 
manners!  I'm  glad  I  stuck  my  tongue  out  at  her.  I 
wish  I'd  stuck  it  further  out.  Say,  I  saw  Rob  Mac- 
Allister  from  over-harbour  there.  Wonder  if  he'll  tell 
Mrs.  Wiley  on  me." 

No  Mrs.  Wiley  appeared,  however,  and  in  a  few 
days  the  children  forgot  to  look  for  her.  Mary  was 
apparently  a  fixture  at  the  manse.  But  she  refused  to 
go  to  school  with  the  others. 

"Nope.  I've  finished  my  education,"  she  said,  when 
Faith  urged  her  to  go.  "I  went  to  school  four  winters 
since  I  come  to  Mrs.  Wiley's  and  I've  had  all  I  want 
of  that.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  being  everlastingly  jawed 
at  'cause  I  didn't  get  my  home  lessons  done.  I'd  no 
time  to  do  home  lessons." 

"Our  teacher  won't  jaw  you.  He  is  awfully  nice," 
said  Faith. 

"Well,  I  ain't  going.     I  can  read  and  write  and 


MARY  STAYS  AT  THE  MANSE       63 

cipher  up  to  fractions.  That's  all  I  want.  You  fellows 
go  and  I'll  stay  home.  You  needn't  be  scared  I'll  steal 
anything.  I  swear  I'm  honest." 

Mary  employed  herself  while  the  others  were  in 
school  in  cleaning  up  the  manse.  In  a  few  days  it  wad 
a  different  place.  Floors  were  swept,  furniture  dusted, 
everything  straightened  out.  She  mended  the  spare- 
room  bed-tick,  she  sewed  on  missing  buttons,  she 
patched  clothes  neatly,  she  even  invaded  the  study  with 
broom  and  dust-pan  and  ordered  Mr.  Meredith  out 
while  she  put  it  to  rights.  But  there  was  one  depart- 
ment with  which  Aunt  Martha  refused  to  let  her  inter- 
fere. Aunt  Martha  might  be  deaf  and  half  blind  and 
very  childish,  but  she  was  resolved  to  keep  the  com- 
missariat in  her  own  hands,  in  spite  of  all  Mary's  wiles 
and  stratagems. 

"I  can  tell  you  if  old  Martha'd  let  me  cook  you'd 
have  some  decent  meals,"  she  told  the  manse  children 
indignantly.  "There'd  be  no  more  'ditto' — and  no 
more  lumpy  porridge  and  blue  milk  either.  What  does 
she  do  with  all  the  cream?" 

"She  gives  it  to  the  cat.  He's  hers,  you  know,"  said 
Faith. 

"I'd  like  to  cat  her,"  exclaimed  Mary  bitterly.  "I've 
no  use  for  cats  anyhow.  They  belong  to  the  old  Nick. 
You  can  tell  that  by  their  eyes.  Well,  if  old  Martha 
won't,  she  won't,  I  s'pose.  But  it  gits  on  my  nerves 
to  see  good  vittles  spoiled." 

When  school  came  out  they  always  went  to  Rainbow 


64  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Valley.  Mary  refused  to  play  in  the  graveyard.  She 
declared  she  was  afraid  of  ghosts. 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  ghosts,"  declared  Jem 
Blythe. 

"Oh,  ain't  there?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  any?" 

"Hundreds  of  'em,"  said  Mary  promptly. 

"What  are  they  like  ?"  said  Carl. 

"Awful-looking.  Dressed  all  in  white  with  skelling- 
ton  hands  and  heads,"  said  Mary. 

"What  did  you  do  ?"  asked  Una. 

"Run  like  the  devil,"  said  Mary.  Then  she  caught 
Walter's  eyes  and  blushed.  Mary  was  a  good  deal  in 
awe  of  Walter.  She  declared  to  the  manse  girls  that 
his  eyes  made  her  nervous. 

"I  think  of  all  the  lies  I've  ever  told  when  I  look 
into  them,"  she  said,  "and  wish  I  hadn't." 

Jem  was  Mary's  favourite.  When  he  took  her  to 
the  attic  at  Ingleside  and  showed  her  the  museum  of 
curios  that  Captain  Jim  Boyd  had  bequeathed  to  him 
she  was  immensely  pleased  and  flattered.  She  also 
won  Carl's  heart  entirely  by  her  interest  in  his  beetles 
and  ants.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  Mary  got  on 
rather  better  with  the  boys  than  with  the  girls.  She 
quarrelled  bitterly  with  Nan  Blythe  the  second  day. 

"Your  mother  is  a  witch,"  she  told  Nan  scornfully. 
"Red-haired  women  are  always  witches."  Then  she 
and  Faith  fell  out  about  the  rooster.  Mary  said  its 
tail  was  too  short.  Faith  angrily  retorted  that  she 


MARY  STAYS  AT  THE  MANSE       65 

guessed  God  knew  what  length  to  make  a  rooster's  tail. 
They  did  not  "speak"  for  a  day  over  this.  Mary 
treated  Una's  hairless,  one-eyed  doll  with  considera- 
tion ;  but  when  Una  showed  her  other  prized  treasure — 
a  picture  of  an  angel  carrying  a  baby,  presumably  to 
heaven,  Mary  declared  that  it  looked  too  mudi  like  a 
ghost  for  her.  Una  crept  away  to  her  room  and  cried 
over  this,  but  Mary  hunted  her  out,  hugged  her  repent- 
antly and  implored  forgiveness.  No  one  could  keep 
up  a  quarrel  long  with  Mary — not  even  Nan,  who  was 
rather  prone  to  hold  grudges  and  never  quite  forgave 
the  insult  to  her  mother.  Mary  was  jolly.  She  could 
and  did  tell  the  most  thrilling  ghost  stories.  Rainbow 
Valley  seances  were  undeniably  more  exciting  after 
Mary  came.  She  learned  to  play  on  the  jews-harp  and 
soon  eclipsed  Jerry. 

"Never  struck  anything  yet  I  couldn't  do  if  I  put 
my  mind  to  it,"  she  declared.  Mary  seldom  lost  a 
chance  of  tooting  her  own  horn.  She  taught  them 
how  to  make  "blow-bags"  out  of  the  thick  leaves  of 
the  "live-forever"  that  flourished  in  the  old  Bailey 
garden,  she  initiated  them  into  the  toothsome  qualities 
of  the  "sours"  that  grew  in  the  niches  of  the  grave- 
yard dyke,  and  she  could  make  the  most  wonderful 
shadow  pictures  on  the  walls  with  her  long,  flexible 
fingers.  And  when  they  all  went  picking  gum  in  Rain- 
bow Valley  Mary  always  got  "the  biggest  chew"  and 
bragged  about  it.  There  were  times  when  they  hated 
her  and  times  when  they  loved  her.  But  at  all  times 


66  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

they  found  her  interesting.  So  they  submitted  quite 
meekly  to  her  bossing,  and  by  the  end  of  a  fortnight 
had  come  to  feel  that  she  must  always  have  been  with 
them. 

"It's  the  queerest  thing  that  Mrs.  Wiley  hain't  been 
after  me,"  said  Mary.  "I  can't  understand  it." 

"Maybe  she  isn't  going  to  bother  about  you  at  all," 
said  Una.  "Then  you  can  just  go  on  staying  here." 

"This  house  ain't  hardly  big  enough  for  me  and  old 
Martha,"  said  Mary  darkly.  "It's  a  very  fine  thing 
to  have  enough  to  eat — I've  often  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like — but  I'm  p'ticler  about  my  cooking. 
And  Mrs.  Wiley'll  be  here  yet.  She's  got  a  rod  in 
pickle  for  me  all  right.  I  don't  think  about  it  so  much 
in  day-time  but  say,  girls,  up  there  in  that  garret  at 
night  I  git  to  thinking  and  thinking  of  it,  till  I  just 
almost  wish  she'd  come  and  have  it  over  with.  I 
dunno's  one  real  good  whipping  would  be  much  worse'n 
all  the  dozen  I've  lived  through  in  my  mind  ever  since 
I  run  away.  Were  any  of  you  ever  licked?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Faith  indignantly. 
"Father  would  never  do  such  a  thing." 

"You  don't  know  you're  alive,"  said  Mary  with  a 
sigh  half  of  envy,  half  of  superiority.  "You  don't 
know  what  I've  come  through.  And  I  s'pose  the 
Blythes  were  never  licked  either?" 

"No-o-o,  I  guess  not.  But  I  think  they  were  some- 
times spanked  when  they  were  small." 

"A  spanking  doesn't  amount  to  anything,"   said 


MARY  STAYS  AT  THE  MANSE       67 

Mary  contemptuously.  "If  my  folks  had  just  spanked 
me  I'd  have  thought  they  were  petting  me.  Well,  it 
ain't  a  fair  world.  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  my  share 
of  wallopings  but  I've  had  a  darn  sight  too  many." 

"It  isn't  right  to  say  that  word,  Mary,"  said  Una 
reproachfully.  "You  promised  me  you  wouldn't  say 
it." 

"G'way,"  responded  Mary.  "If  you  knew  some  of 
the  words  I  could  say  if  I  liked  you  wouldn't  make 
such  a  fuss  over  darn.  And  you  know  very  well  I 
hain't  ever  told  any  lies  since  I  come  here." 

"What  about  all  those  ghosts  you  said  you  saw?" 
asked  Faith. 

Mary  blushed. 

"That  was  diff'runt,"  she  said  defiantly.  "I  knew 
you  wouldn't  believe  them  yarns  and  I  didn't  intend 
you  to.  And  I  really  did  see  something  queer  one 
night  when  I  was  passing  the  over-harbour  graveyard, 
true's  you  live.  I  dunno  whether  'twas  a  ghost  or 
Sandy  Crawford's  old  white  nag,  but  it  looked  blamed 
queer  and  I  tell  you  I  scooted  at  the  rate  of  no  man's 
business." 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  FISHY  EPISODE 

RILLA  BLYTHE  walked  proudly,  and  perhaps  a 
little  primly,  through  the  main  "street"  of  the 
Glen  and  up  the  manse  hill,  carefully  carrying  a  small 
.basketful  of  early  strawberries,  which  Susan  had 
coaxed  into  lusciousness  in  one  of  the  sunny  nooks  of 
Ingleside.  Susan  had  charged  Rilla  to  give  the  basket 
to  nobody  except  Aunt  Martha  or  Mr.  Meredith,  and 
Rilla,  very  proud  of  being  entrusted  with  such  an 
errand,  was  resolved  to  carry  out  her  instructions  to 
the  letter. 

Susan  had  dressed  her  daintily  in  a  white,  starched, 
and  embroidered  dress,  with  sash  of  blue  and  beaded 
slippers.  Her  long  ruddy  curls  were  sleek  and  round, 
and  Susan  had  let  her  put  on  her  best  hat,  out  of 
compliment  to  the  manse.  It  was  a  somewhat  elaborate 
affair,  wherein  Susan's  taste  had  had  more  to  say  than 
Anne's,  and  Rilla's  small  soul  gloried  in  its  splendours 
of  silk  and  lace  and  flowers.  She  was  very  conscious 
of  her  hat,  and  I  am  afraid  she  strutted  up  the  manse 
hill.  The  strut,  or  the  hat,  or  both,  got  on  the  nerves 
of  Mary  Vance,  who  was  swinging  on  the  lawn  gate. 
Mary's  temper  was  somewhat  ruffled  just  then,  into 
the  bargain.  Aunt  Martha  had  refused  to  let  her  peel 
the  potatoes  and  had  ordered  her  out  of  the  kitchen. 

68 


A  FISHY  EPISODE  69 

"Yah!  You'll  bring  the  potatoes  to  the  table  with 
strips  of  skin  hanging  to  them  and  half  boiled  as  usual ! 
My,  but  it'll  be  nice  to  go  to  your  funeral,"  shrieked 
Mary.  She  went  out  of  the  kitchen,  giving  the  door 
such  a  bang  that  even  Aunt  Martha  heard  it,  and  Mr. 
Meredith  in  his  study  felt  the  vibration  and  thought 
absently  that  there  must  have  been  a  slight  earthquake 
shock.  Then  he  went  on  with  his  sermon. 

Mary  slipped  from  the  gate  and  confronted  the 
spick  and  span  damsel  of  Ingleside. 

"What  you  got  there?"  she  demanded,  trying  to  take 
the  basket. 

Rilla  resisted.  "It'th  for  Mithter  Meredith,"  she 
lisped. 

"Give  it  to  me.    I'll  give  it  to  him,"  said  Mary. 

"No.  Thuthan  thaid  I  wathn't  to  give  it  to  anybody 
but  Mithter  Mer'dith  or  Aunt  Martha,"  insisted  Rilla, 

Mary  eyed  her  sourly. 

"You  think  you're  something,  don't  you,  all  dressed 
up  like  a  doll  ?  Look  at  me.  My  dress  is  all  rags  and 
/  don't  care!  I'd  rather  be  ragged  than  a  doll  baby. 
Go  home  and  tell  them  to  put  you  in  a  glass  case.  Look 
at  me — look  at  me — look  at  me !" 

Mary  executed  a  wild  dance  around  the  dismayed 
and  bewildered  Rilla,  flirting  her  ragged  skirt  and 
vociferating  "Look  at  me — look  at  me"  until  poor 
Rilla  was  dizzy.  But  as  the  latter  tried  to  edge  away 
towards  the  gate  Mary  pounced  on  her  again. 

"You  give  me  that  basket,"   she  ordered  with  a 


70  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

grimace.  Mary  was  past  mistress  in  the  art  of  "mak- 
ing faces."  She  could  give  her  countenance  a  most 
grotesque  and  unearthly  appearance  out  of  which  her 
strange,  brilliant,  white  eyes  gleamed  with  weird  effect. 

"I  won't,"  gasped  Rilla,  frightened  but  staunch. 
"You  let  me  go,  Mary  Vanth." 

Mary  let  go  for  a  minute  and  looked  around  her. 
Just  inside  the  gate  was  a  small  "flake,"  on  which  half 
a  dozen  large  codfish  were  drying.  One  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  parishioners  had  presented  him  with  them 
one  day,  perhaps  in  lieu  of  the  subscription  he  was 
supposed  to  pay  to  the  stipend  and  never  did.  Mr. 
Meredith  had  thanked  him  and  then  forgotten  all 
about  the  fish,  which  would  have  promptly  spoiled  had 
not  the  indefatigable  Mary  prepared  them  for  drying 
and  rigged  up  the  "flake"  herself  on  which  to  dry 
them. 

Mary  had  a  diabolical  inspiration.  She  flew  to  the 
"flake"  and  seized  the  largest  fish  there — a  huge,  flat 
thing,  nearly  as  big  as  herself.  With  a  whoop  she 
swooped  down  on  the  terrified  Rilla,  brandishing  her 
weird  missile.  Rilla's  courage  gave  way.  To  be  lam- 
basted with  a  dried  codfish  was  such  an  unheard-of 
thing  that  Rilla  could  not  face  it.  With  a  shriek  she 
dropped  her  basket  and  fled.  The  beautiful  berries, 
which  Susan  had  so  tenderly  selected  for  the  minister, 
rolled  in  a  rosy  torrent  over  the  dusty  road  and  were 
trodden  on  by  the  flying  feet  of  pursuer  and  pursued. 
The  basket  and  contents  were  no  longer  in  Mary's 


A  FISHY  EPISODE  71 

mind.  She  thought  only  of  the  delight  of  giving  Rilla 
Blythe  the  scare  of  her  life.  She  would  teach  her  to 
come  giving  herself  airs  because  of  her  fine  clothes. 

Rilla  flew  down  the  hill  and  along  the  street.  Terror 
lent  wings  to  her  feet,  and  she  just  managed  to  keep 
ahead  of  Mary,  who  was  somewhat  hampered  by  her 
own  laughter,  but  who  had  breath  enough  to  give  occa- 
sional blood-curdling  whoops  as  she  ran,  flourishing  her 
codfish  in  the  air.  Through  the  Glen  street  they  swept, 
while  everybody  ran  to  the  windows  and  gates  to  see 
them.  Mary  felt  she  was  making  a  tremendous  sensa- 
tion and  enjoyed  it.  Rilla,  blind  with  terror  and  spent 
of  breath,  felt  that  she  could  run  no  longer.  In  an- 
other instant  that  terrible  girl  would  be  on  her  with 
the  codfish.  At  this  point  the  poor  mite  stumbled  and 
fell  into  the  mud-puddle  at  the  end  of  the  street  just 
as  Miss  Cornelia  came  out  of  Carter  Flagg's  store. 

Miss  Cornelia  took  the  whole  situation  in  at  a  glance. 
So  did  Mary.  The  latter  stopped  short  in  her  mad 
career  and  before  Miss  Cornelia  could  speak  she  had 
whirled  around  and  was  running  up  as  fast  as  she  had 
run  down.  Miss  Cornelia's  lips  tightened  ominously, 
but  she  knew  it  was  no  use  to  think  of  chasing  her.  So 
she  picked  up  poor,  sobbing,  dishevelled  Rilla  instead 
and  took  her  home.  Rilla  was  heart  broken.  Her 
dress  and  slippers  and  hat  were  ruined  and  her  six  year 
old  pride  had  received  terrible  bruises. 

Susan,  white  with  indignation,  heard  Miss  Cor- 
nelia's story  of  Mary  Vance's  exploit. 


72  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Oh,  the  hussy — oh,  the  little  hussy!"  she  said,  as 
she  carried  Rilla  away  for  purification  and  comfort. 

"This  thing  has  gone  far  enough,  Anne  dearie,"  said 
Miss  Cornelia  resolutely.  "Something  must  be  done. 
Who  is  this  creature  who  is  staying  at  the  manse  and 
where  does  she  come  from?" 

"I  understood  she  was  a  little  girl  from  over-harbour 
who  was  visiting  at  the  manse,"  answered  Anne,  who 
saw  the  comical  side  of  the  codfish  chase  and  secretly 
thought  Rilla  was  rather  vain  and  needed  a  lesson  or 
two. 

"I  know  all  the  over-harbour  families  who  come  to 
our  church  and  that  imp  doesn't  belong  to  any  of 
them,"  retorted  Miss  Cornelia.  "She  is  almost  in  rags 
and  when  she  goes  to  church  she  wears  Faith  Mere- 
dith's old  clothes.  There's  some  mystery  here,  and 
I'm  going  to  investigate  it,  since  it  seems  nobody  else 
will.  I  believe  she  was  at  the  bottom  of  their  goings-on 
in  Warren  Mead's  spruce  bush  the  other  day.  Did 
you  hear  of  their  frightening  his  mother  into  a  fit  ?" 

"No.  I  knew  Gilbert  had  been  called  to  see  her,  but 
I  did  not  hear  what  the  trouble  was." 

"Well,  you  know  she  has  a  weak  heart.  And  one 
day  last  week,  when  she  was  all  alone  on  the  veranda, 
she  heard  the  most  awful  shrieks  of  "murder"  and 
"help"  coming  from  the  bush — positively  frightful 
sounds,  Anne  dearie.  Her  heart  gave  out  at  once. 
Warren  heard  them  himself  at  the  barn,  and  went 


A  FISHY  EPISODE  73 

straight  to  the  bush  to  investigate,  and  there  he  found 
all  the  manse  children  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree  and 
screaming  "murder"  at  the  top  of  their  lungs.  They 
told  him  they  were  only  in  fun  and  didn't  think  any 
one  would  hear  them.  They  were  just  playing  Indian 
ambush.  Warren  went  back  to  the  house  and  found 
his  poor  mother  unconscious  on  the  veranda." 

Susan,  who  had  returned,  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"I  think  she  was  very  far  from  being  unconscious, 
Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott,  and  that  you  may  tie  to.  I 
have  been  hearing  of  Amelia  Warren's  weak  heart  for 
forty  years.  She  had  it  when  she  was  twenty.  She 
enjoys  making  a  fuss  and  having  the  doctor,  and  any 
excuse  will  do." 

"I  don't  think  Gilbert  thought  her  attack  very  seri- 
ous," said  Anne. 

"Oh,  that  may  very  well  be,"  said  Miss  Cornelia. 
"But  the  matter  has  made  an  awful  lot  of  talk  and  the 
Meads  being  Methodists  makes  it  that  much  worse. 
What  is  going  to  become  of  those  children?  Some- 
times I  can't  sleep  at  nights  for  thinking  about  them, 
Anne  dearie.  I  really  do  question  if  they  get  enough  to 
eat,  even,  for  their  father  is  so  lost  in  dreams  that  he 
doesn't  often  remember  he  has  a  stomach,  and  that 
lazy  old  woman  doesn't  bother  cooking  what  she  ought. 
They  are  just  running  wild  and  now  that  school  is 
closing  they'll  be  worse  than  ever." 

"They  do  have  jolly  times,"  said  Anne,  laughing 


74  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

over  the  recollections  of  some  Rainbow  Valley  happen- 
ings that  had  come  to  her  ears.  "And  they  are  all 
brave  and  frank  and  loyal  and  truthful." 

"That's  a  true  word,  Anne  dearie,  and  when  you 
come  to  think  of  all  the  trouble  in  the  church  those  two 
tattling,  deceitful  youngsters  of  the  last  minister's 
made  I'm  inclined  to  overlook  a  good  deal  in  the 
Merediths." 

"When  all  is  said  and  done,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  they  are 
very  nice  children,"  said  Susan.  "They  have  got 
plenty  of  original  sin  in  them  and  that  I  will  admit, 
but  maybe  it  is  just  as  well,  for  if  they  had  not  they 
might  spoil  from  over-sweetness.  Only  I  do  think  it 
is  not  proper  for  them  to  play  in  a  graveyard  and  that 
I  will  maintain." 

"But  they  really  play  quite  quietly  there,"  excused 
Anne.  "They  don't  run  and  yell  as  they  do  elsewhere. 
Such  howls  as  drift  up  here  from  Rainbow  Valley 
sometimes!  Though  I  fancy  my  own  small  fry  bear 
a  valiant  part  in  them.  They  had  a  sham  battle  there 
last  night  and  had  to  "roar"  themselves,  because  they 
had  no  artillery  to  do  it,  so  Jem  says.  Jem  is  passing 
through  the  stage  where  all  boys  hanker  to  be  soldiers." 

"Well,  thank  goodness,  he'll  never  be  a  soldier," 
said  Miss  Cornelia.  "I  never  approved  of  our  boys 
going  to  that  South  African  fracas.  But  it's  over,  and 
not  likely  anything  of  the  kind  will  ever  happen  again. 
I  think  the  world  is  getting  more  sensible.  As  for  the 


A  FISHY  EPISODE  75 

Merediths,  I've  said  many  a  time  and  I  say  it  again,  if 
Mr.  Meredith  had  a  wife  all  would  be  well." 

"He  called  twice  at  the  Kirks'  last  week,  so  I  am 
told,"  said  Susan. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Cornelia  thoughtfully,  "as  a  rule, 
I  don't  approve  of  a  minister  marrying  in  his  congre- 
gation. It  generally  spoils  him.  But  in  this  case  it 
would  do  no  harm,  for  every  one  likes  Elizabeth  Kirk 
and  nobody  else  is  hankering  for  the  job  of  step- 
mothering  those  youngsters.  Even  the  Hill  girls  balk 
at  that.  They  haven't  been  found  laying  traps  for  Mr. 
Meredith.  Elizabeth  would  make  him  a  good  wife  if 
he  only  thought  so.  But  the  trouble  is,  she  really  is 
homely  and,  Anne  dearie,  Mr.  Meredith,  abstracted 
as  he  is,  has  an  eye  for  a  good-looking  woman,  man- 
like. He  isn't  so  other-worldly  when  it  conies  to  that, 
believe  me." 

"Elizabeth  Kirk  is  a  very  nice  person,  but  they  do 
say  that  people  have  nearly  frozen  to  death  in  her 
mother's  spare-room  bed  before  now,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear," 
said  Susan  darkly.  "If  I  felt  I  had  any  right  to  ex- 
press an  opinion  concerning  such  a  solemn  matter  as 
a  minister's  marriage  I  would  say  that  I  think  Eliza- 
beth's cousin  Sarah,  over-harbour,  would  make  Mr. 
Meredith  a  better  wife." 

"Why,  Sarah  Kirk  is  a  Methodist,"  said  Miss  Cor- 
nelia, much  as  if  Susan  had  suggested  a  Hottentot  as 
a  manse  bride. 


76  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"She  would  likely  turn  Presbyterian  if  she  married 
Mr.  Meredith,"  retorted  Susan. 

Miss  Cornelia  shook  her  head.  Evidently  with  her 
it  was,  once  a  Methodist,  always  a  Methodist. 

"Sarah  Kirk  is  entirely  out  of  the  question,"  she 
said  positively.  "And  so  is  Emmeline  Drew — though 
the  Drews  are  all  trying  to  make  the  match.  They 
are  literally  throwing  poor  Emmeline  at  his  head,  and 
he  hasn't  the  least  idea  of  it." 

"Emmeline  Drew  has  no  gumption,  I  must  allow," 
said  Susan.  "She  is  the  kind  of  woman,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear,  who  would  put  a  hot  water  bottle  in  your  bed  on 
a  dog-night  and  then  have  her  feelings  hurt  because 
you  were  not  grateful.  And  her  mother  was  a  very 
poor  housekeeper.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  her 
dishcloth?  She  lost  her  dishcloth  one  day.  But  the 
next  day  she  found  it.  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  she 
found  it,  in  the  goose  at  the  dinner  table,  mixed  up 
with  the  stuffing.  Do  you  think  a  woman  like  that 
would  do  for  a  minister's  mother-in-law?  /  do  not. 
But  no  doubt  I  would  be  better  employed  in  mending 
little  Jem's  trousers  than  in  talking  gossip  about  my 
neighbours.  He  tore  them  something  scandalous  last 
night  in  Rainbow  Valley." 

"Where  is  Walter?"  asked  Anne. 

"He  is  up  to  no  good,  I  fear,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  He  is 
in  the  attic  writing  something  in  an  exercise  book. 
And  he  has  not  done  as  well  in  arithmetic  this  term 
as  he  should,  so  the  teacher  tells  me.  Too  well  I  know 


A  FISHY  EPISODE  77 

the  reason  why.  He  has  been  writing  silly  rhymes 
when  he  should  have  been  doing  his  sums.  I  am  afraid 
that  boy  is  going  to  be  a  poet,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear." 

"He  is  a  poet  now,  Susan." 

"Well,  you  take  it  real  calm,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  the  best  way,  when  a  person  has  the  strength. 
I  had  an  uncle  who  began  by  being  a  poet  and  ended 
up  by  being  a  tramp.  Our  family  were  dreadfully 
ashamed  of  him." 

"You  don't  seem  to  think  very  highly  of  poets, 
Susan,"  said  Anne,  laughing. 

"Who  does,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear  ?"  asked  Susan  in  genuine 
astonishment. 

"What  about  Milton  and  Shakespeare?  And  the 
poets  of  the  Bible?" 

"They  tell  me  Milton  could  not  get  along  with  his 
wife,  and  Shakespeare  was  no  more  than  respectable 
by  times.  As  for  the  Bible,  of  course  things  were 
different  in  those  sacred  days — although  I  never  had 
a  high  opinion  of  King  David,  say  what  you  will.  I 
never  knew  any  good  to  come  of  writing  poetry,  and 
I  hope  and  pray  that  blessed  boy  will  outgrow  the  tend- 
ency. If  he  does  not — we  must  see  what  emulsion  of 
cod-liver  oil  will  do." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Miss  CORNELIA  INTERVENES 

MISS  CORNELIA  descended  upon  the  manse 
the  next  day  and  cross-questioned  Mary,  who, 
being  a  young  person  of  considerable  discernment  and 
astuteness,  told  her  story  simply  and*  truthfully,  with 
an  entire  absence  of  complaint  or  bravado.  Miss 
Cornelia  was  more  favourably  impressed  than  she  had 
expected  to  be,  but  deemed  it  her  duty  to  be  severe. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said  sternly,  "that  you  showed 
your  gratitude  to  this  family,  who  have  been  far  too 
kind  to  you,  by  insulting  and  chasing  one  of  their  little 
friends  as  you  did  yesterday  ?" 

"Say,  it  was  rotten  mean  of  me,"  admitted  Mary 
easily.  "I  dunno  what  possessed  me.  That  old  codfish 
seemed  to  come  in  so  blamed  handy.  But  I  was  awful 
sorry — I  cried  last  night  after  I  went  to  bed  about  it, 
honest  I  did.  You  ask  Una  if  I  didn't.  I  wouldn't 
tell  her  what  for  'cause  I  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  then 
she  cried,  too,  because  she  was  afraid  some  one  had 
hurt  my  feelings.  Laws,  I  ain't  got  any  feelings  to 
hurt  worth  speaking  of.  What  worries  me  is  why 
Mrs.  Wiley  hain't  been  hunting  for  me.  It  ain't  like 
her." 

Miss  Cornelia  herself  thought  it  rather  peculiar,  but 

78 


MISS  CORNELIA  INTERVENES        79 

she  merely  admonished  Mary  sharply  not  to  take  any 
further  liberties  with  the  minister's  codfish,  and  went 
to  report  progress  at  Ingleside. 

"If  the  child's  story  is  true  the  matter  ought  to  be 
looked  into,"  she  said.  "I  know  something  about  that 
Wiley  woman,  believe  me.  Marshall  used  to  be  well 
acquainted  with  her  when  he  lived  over-harbour.  I 
heard  him  say  something  last  summer  about  her  and 
a  home  child  she  had — likely  this  very  Mary-creature. 
He  said  some  one  told  him  she  was  working  the  child 
to  death  and  not  half  feeding  and  clothing  it.  You 
know,  Anne  dearie,  it  has  always  been  my  habit  neither 
to  make  nor  meddle  with  those  over-harbour  folks. 
But  I  shall  send  Marshall  over  to-morrow  to  find  out 
the  rights  of  this  if  he  can.  And  then  I'll  speak  to  the 
minister.  Mind  you,  Anne  dearie,  the  Merediths  found 
this  girl  literally  starving  in  James  Taylor's  old  hay 
barn.  She  had  been  there  all  night,  cold  and  hungry 
and  alone.  And  us  sleeping  warm  in  our  beds  after 
good  suppers." 

"The  poor  little  thing,"  said  Anne,  picturing  one  of 
her  own  dear  babies,  cold  and  hungry  and  alone  in  such 
circumstances.  "If  she  has  been  ill-used,  Miss  Cor- 
nelia, she  mustn't  be  taken  back  to  such  a  place.  I  was 
an  orphan  once  in  a  very  similar  situation." 

"We'll  have  to  consult  the  Hopetown  asylum  folks," 
said  Miss  Cornelia.  "Anyway,  she  can't  be  left  at  the 
manse.  Dear  knows  what  those  poor  children  might 
learn  from  her.  I  understand  that  she  has  been  known 


80  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

to  swear.  But  just  think  of  her  being  there  two  whole 
weeks  and  Mr.  Meredith  never  waking  up  to  it !  What 
business  has  a  man  like  that  to  have  a  family?  Why, 
Anne  dearie,  he  ought  to  be  a  monk." 

Two  evenings  later  Miss  Cornelia  was  back  at  Ingle- 
side. 

"It's  the  most  amazing  thing!"  she  said.  "Mrs. 
Wiley  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  the  very  morning 
after  this  Mary-creature  ran  away.  She  has  had  a 
bad  heart  for  years  and  the  doctor  had  warned  her  it 
might  happen  at  any  time.  She  had  sent  away  her 
hired  man  and  there  was  nobody  in  the  house.  Some 
neighbours  found  her  the  next  day.  They  missed  the 
child,  it  seems,  but  supposed  Mrs.  Wiley  had  sent  her 
to  her  cousin  near  Charlottetown  as  she  had  said  she 
was  going  to  do.  The  cousin  didn't  come  to  the  funeral 
and  so  nobody  ever  knew  that  Mary  wasn't  with  her. 
The  people  Marshall  talked  to  told  him  some  things 
about  the  way  Mrs.  Wiley  used  this  Mary  that  made 
his  blood  boil,  so  he  declares.  You  know,  it  puts 
Marshall  in  a  regular  fury  to  hear  of  a  child  being  ill- 
used.  They  said  she  whipped  her  mercilessly  for  every 
little  fault  or  mistake.  Some  folks  talked  of  writing 
to  the  asylum  authorities  but  everybody's  business  is 
nobody's  business  and  it  was  never  done." 

"I  am  very  sorry  that  Wiley  person  is  dead,"  said 
Susan  fiercely.  "I  should  like  to  go  over-harbour  and 
give  her  a  piece  of  my  mind.  Starving  and  beating 
a  child,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear!  As  you  know,  I  hold  with 


MISS  CORNELIA  INTERVENES        81 

lawful  spanking,  but  I  go  no  further.  And  what  is 
to  become  of  this  poor  child  now,  Mrs.  Marshall 
Elliott?" 

"I  suppose  she  must  be  sent  back  to  Hopetown," 
said  Miss  Cornelia.  "I  think  every  one  hereabouts 
who  wants  a  home  child  has  one.  I'll  see  Mr.  Meredith 
to-morrow  and  tell  him  my  opinion  of  the  whole 
affair." 

"And  no  doubt  she  will,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan, 
after  Miss  Cornelia  had  gone.  "She  would  stick  at 
nothing,  not  even  at  shingling  the  church  spire  if  she 
took  it  into  her  head.  But  I  cannot  understand  how 
even  Cornelia  Bryant  can  talk  to  a  minister  as  she  does. 
You  would  think  he  was  just  any  common  person." 

When  Miss  Cornelia  had  gone,  Nan  Blythe  uncurled 
herself  from  the  hammock  where  she  had  been  study- 
ing her  lessons  and  slipped  away  to  Rainbow  Valley. 
The  others  were  already  there.  Jem  and  Jerry  were 
playing  quoits  with  old  horseshoes  borrowed  from  the 
Glen  blacksmith.  Carl  was  stalking  ants  on  a  sunny 
hillock.  Walter,  lying  on  his  stomach  among  the  fern, 
was  reading  aloud  to  Mary  and  Di  and  Faith  and  Una 
from  a  wonderful  book  of  myths  wherein  were  fasci- 
nating accounts  of  Prester  John  and  the  Wandering 
Jew,  divining  rods  and  tailed  men,  of  Schamir,  the 
worm  that  split  rocks  and  opened  the  way  to  golden 
treasure,  of  Fortunate  Isles  and  swan-maidens.  It 
was  a  great  shock  to  Walter  to  learn  that  William  Tell 
and  Gelert  were  myths  also;  and  the  story  of  Bishop 


82  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Hatto  was  to  keep  him  awake  all  that  night ;  but  best 
of  all  he  loved  the  stories  of  the  Pied  Piper  and  the 
San  Greal.  He  read  them  thrillingly,  while  the  bells 
on  the  Tree  Lovers  tinkled  in  the  summer  wind  and 
the  coolness  of  the  evening  shadows  crept  across  the 
valley. 

"Say,  ain't  them  in'resting  lies?"  said  Mary  admir- 
ingly when  Walter  had  closed  the  book. 

"They  aren't  lies,"  said  Di  indignantly. 

"You  don't  mean  they're  true?"  asked  Mary  in- 
credulously. 

"No — not  exactly.  They're  like  those  ghost-stories 
of  yours.  They  weren't  true — but  you  didn't  expect 
us  to  believe  them,  so  they  weren't  lies." 

"That  yarn  about  the  divining  rod  is  no  lie,  any- 
how," said  Mary.  "Old  Jake  Crawford  over-harbour 
can  work  it.  They  send  for  him  from  everywhere 
when  they  want  to  dig  a  well.  And  I  believe  I  know 
the  Wandering  Jew." 

"Oh,  Mary,"  said  Una,  awe-struck. 

"I  do — true's  you're  alive.  There  was  an  old  man 
at .  Mrs.  Wiley's  one  day  last  fall.  He  looked  old 
enough  to  be  anything.  She  was  asking  him  about 
cedar  posts,  if  he  thought  they'd  last  well.  And  he 
said,  'Last  well?  They'll  last  a  thousand  years.  I 
know,  for  I've  tried  them  twice.'  Now,  if  he  was  two 
thousand  years  old  who  was  he  but  your  Wandering 
Jew?" 


MISS  CORNELIA  INTERVENES        83 

"I  don't  believe  the  Wandering  Jew  would  associate 
with  a  person  like  Mrs.  Wiley,"  said  Faith  decidedly. 

"I  love  the  Pied  Piper  story,"  said  Di,  "and  so  does 
mother.  I  always  feel  so  sorry  for  the  poor  little  lame 
boy  who  couldn't  keep  up  with  the  others  and  got  shut 
out  of  the  mountain.  He  must  have  been  so  disap- 
pointed. I  think  all  the  rest  of  his  life  he'd  be  wonder- 
ing what  wonderful  thing  he  had  missed  and  wishing 
he  could  have  got  in  with  the  others." 

"But  how  glad  his  mother  must  have  been,"  said 
Una  softly.  "I  think  she  had  been  sorry  all  her  life 
that  he  was  lame.  Perhaps  she  even  used  to  cry  about 
it.  But  she  would  never  be  sorry  again — never.  She 
would  be  glad  he  was  lame  because  that  was  why  she 
hadn't  lost  him." 

"Some  day,"  said  Walter  dreamily,  looking  afar 
into  the  sky,  "the  Pied  Piper  will  come  over  the  hill 
up  there  and  down  Rainbow  Valley,  piping  merrily 
and  sweetly.  And  I  will  follow  him — follow  him  down 
to  the  shore — down  to  the  sea — away  from  you  all.  I 
don't  think  I'll  want  to  go.  Jem  will  want  to  go— -it 
will  be  such  an  adventure — but  I  won't.  Only  I'll  have 
to — the  music  will  call  and  call  and  call  me  until  I 
must  follow." 

"We'll  all  go,"  cried  Di,  catching  fire  at  the  flame 
of  Walter's  fancy,  and  half -believing  she  could  see 
the  mocking,  retreating  figure  of  the  mystic  piper  in 
the  far,  dim  end  of  the  valley. 


84  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"No.  You'll  sit  here  and  wait,"  said  Walter,  his 
great,  splendid  eyes  full  of  strange  glamour.  "You'll 
wait  for  us  to  come  back.  And  we  may  not  come — 
for  we  cannot  come  as  long  as  the  Piper  plays.  He 
may  pipe  us  round  the  world.  And  still  you'll  sit  here 
and  wait — and  wait/' 

"Oh,  dry  up,"  said  Mary,  shivering.  "Don't  look 
like  that,  Walter  Blythe.  You  give  me  the  creeps. 
Do  you  want  to  set  me  bawling?  I  could  just  see  that 
horrid  old  Piper  going  away  on,  and  you  boys  follow- 
ing him,  and  us  girls  sitting  here  waiting  all  alone.  I 
dunno  why  it  is — I  never  was  one  of  the  blubbering 
kind — but  as  soon  as  you  start  your  spieling  I  always 
want  to  cry." 

Walter  smiled  in  triumph.  He  liked  to  exercise  this 
power  of  his  over  his  companions — to  play  on  their 
feelings,  waken  their  fears,  thrill  their  souls.  It  satis- 
fied some  dramatic  instinct  in  him.  But  under  his 
triumph  was  a  queer  little  chill  of  some  mysterious 
dread.  The  Pied  Piper  had  seemed  very  real  to  him — 
as  if  the  fluttering  veil  that  hid  the  future  had  for  a 
moment  been  blown  aside  in  the  starlit  dusk  of  Rain- 
bow Valley  and  some  dim  glimpse  of  coming  years 
granted  to  him. 

Carl,  coming  up  to  their  group  with  a  report  of  the 
doings  in  ant-land,  brought  them  all  back  to  the  realm 
of  facts. 

"Ants  are  darned  in'resting,"  exclaimed  Mary,  glad 
to  escape  the  shadowy  Piper's  thrall.  "Carl  and  me 


MISS  CORNELIA  INTERVENES        85 

watched  that  bed  in  the  graveyard  all  Saturday  after- 
noon. I  never  thought  there  was  so  much  in  bugs. 
Say,  but  they're  quarrelsome  little  cusses — some  of 
'em  like  to  start  a  fight  'thout  any  reason,  tar's  we 
could  see.  And  some  of  'em  are  cowards.  They  got 
so  scared  they  just  doubled  theirselves  up  into  a  ball 
and  let  the  other  fellows  bang  'em  round.  They 
wouldn't  put  up  a  fight  at  all.  Some  of  'em  are  lazy 
and  won't  work.  We  watched  'em  shirking.  And 
there  was  one  ant  died  of  grief  'cause  another  ant  got 
killed — wouldn't  work — wouldn't  eat — just  died — it 
did,  honest  to  Go — oodness." 

A  shocked  silence  prevailed.  Every  one  knew  that 
Mary  had  not  started  out  to  say  "goodness."  Faith 
and  Di  exchanged  glances  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  Miss  Cornelia  herself.  Walter  and  Carl  looked 
uncomfortable,  and  Una's  lip  trembled. 

Mary  squirmed  uncomfortably. 

"That  slipped  out  'fore  I  thought — it  did,  honest  to 
— I  mean,  true's  you  live,  and  I  swallowed  half  of  it. 
You  folks  over  here  are  mighty  squeamish  seems  to 
me.  Wish  you  could  have  heard  the  Wileys  when 
they  had  a  fight." 

"Ladies  don't  say  such  things,"  said  Faith,  very 
primly  for  her. 

"It  isn't  right,"  whispered  Una. 

"I  ain't  a  lady,"  said  Mary.  "What  chance've  I 
ever  had  of  being  a  lady?  But  I  won't  say  that  again 
if  I  can  help  it.  I  promise  you." 


86  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Besides,"  said  Una,  "you  can't  expect  God  to 
answer  your  prayers  if  you  take  His  name  in  vain, 
Mary." 

"I  don't  expect  Him  to  answer  'em  anyhow,"  said 
Mary  of  little  faith.  "I've  been  asking  Him  for  a 
week  to  clear  up  this  Wiley  affair  and  He  hasn't  done 
a  thing.  I'm  going  to  give  up." 

At  this  juncture  Nan  arrived  breathless. 

"Oh,  Mary,  I've  news  for  you.  Mrs.  Elliott  has 
been  over-harbour  and  what  do  you  think  she  found 
out  ?  Mrs.  Wiley  is  dead — she  was  found  dead  in  bed 
the  morning  after  you  ran  away.  So  you'll  never  have 
to  go  back  to  her." 

"Dead !"  said  Mary  stupefied.    Then  she  shivered. 

"Do  you  s'pose  my  praying  had  anything  to  do  with 
that?"  she  cried  imploringly  to  Una.  "If  it  had  I'll 
never  pray  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Why,  she  may 
come  back  and  ha'nt  me." 

"No,  no,  Mary,"  said  Una  comfortingly,  "it  hadn't. 
Why,  Mrs.  Wiley  died  long  before  you  ever  began  to 
pray  about  it  at  all." 

"That's  so,"  said  Mary  recovering  from  her  panic. 
"But  I  tell  you  it  gave  me  a  start.  I  wouldn't  like  to 
think  I'd  prayed  anybody  to  death.  I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing  as  her  dying  when  I  was  praying.  She 
didn't  seem  much  like  the  dying  kind.  Did  Mrs.  Elliott 
say  anything  about  me?" 

"She  said  you  would  likely  have  to  go  back  to  the 
asylum." 


MISS  CORNELIA  INTERVENES        87 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Mary  drearily.  "And 
then  they'll  give  me  out  again — likely  to  some  one  just 
like  Mrs.  Wiley.  Well,  I  s'pose  I  can  stand  it  I'm 
tough." 

"I'm  going  to  pray  that  you  won't  have  to  go  back," 
whispered  Una,  as  she  and  Mary  walked  home  to  the 
manse. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like,"  said  Mary  decidedly,  "but 
I  vow  /  won't.  I'm  good  and  scared  of  this  praying 
business.  See  what's  come  of  it.  If  Mrs.  Wiley  had 
died  after  I  started  praying  it  would  have  been  my 
doings." 

"Oh,  no,  it  wouldn't,"  said  Una.  "I  wish  I  could 
explain  things  better — father  could,  I  know,  if  you'd 
talk  to  him,  Mary." 

"Catch  me!  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  your 
father,  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it.  He  goes  by 
me  and  never  sees  me  in  broad  daylight  I  ain't  proud 
— but  I  ain't  a  door  mat,  neither!" 

"Oh,  Mary,  it's  just  father's  way.  Most  of  the 
time  he  never  sees  us,  either.  He  is  thinking  deeply, 
that  is  all.  And  I  am  going  to  pray  that  God  will  keep 
you  in  Four  Winds — because  I  like  you,  Mary." 

"All  right  Only  don't  let  me  hear  of  any  more 
people  dying  on  account  of  it,"  said  Mary.  "I'd  like 
to  stay  in  Four  Winds  fine.  I  like  it  and  I  like  the 
harbour  and  the  light  house — and  you  and  the  Blythes. 
You're  the  only  friends  I  ever  had  and  I'd  hate  to  leave 
you." 


CHAPTER  IX 
UNA  INTERVENES 

MISS  CORNELIA  had  an  interview  with  Mr. 
Meredith  which  proved  something  of  a  shock 
to  that  abstracted  gentleman.  She  pointed  out  to  him, 
none  too  respectfully,  his  dereliction  of  duty  in  allow- 
ing a  waif  like  Mary  Vance  to  come  into  his  family  and 
associate  with  his  children  without  knowing  or  learn- 
ing anything  about  her. 

"I  don't  say  there  is  much  harm  done,  of  course," 
she  concluded.  "This  Mary-creature  isn't  what  you 
might  call  bad,  when  all  is  said  and  done.  I've  been 
questioning  your  children  and  the  Blythes,  and  from 
what  I  can  make  out  there's  nothing  much  to  be  said 
against  the  child  except  that  she's  slangy  and  doesn't 
use  very  refined  language.  But  think  what  might  have 
happened  if  she'd  been  like  some  of  those  home  chil- 
dren we  know  of.  You  know  yourself  what  that  poor 
little  creature  the  Jim  Flaggs'  had,  taught  and  told  the 
Flagg  children." 

Mr.  Meredith  did  know  and  was  honestly  shocked 
over  his  own  carelessness  in  the  matter. 

"But  what  is  to  be  done,  Mrs.  Elliott?"  he  asked 
helplessly.  "We  can't  turn  the  poor  child  out  She 
must  be  cared  for." 

"Of  course.    We'd  better  write  to  the  Hopetown 

88 


UNA  INTERVENES  89 

authorities  at  once.  Meanwhile,  I  suppose  she  might 
as  well  stay  here  for  a  few  more  days  till  we  hear  from 
them.  But  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open,  Mr. 
Meredith." 

Susan  would  have  died  of  horror  on  the  spot  if  she 
had  heard  Miss  Cornelia  so  admonishing  a  minister. 
But  Miss  Cornelia  departed  in  a  warm  glow  of  satis- 
faction over  duty  done,  and  that  night  Mr.  Meredith 
asked  Mary  to  come  into  his  study  with  him.  Mary 
obeyed,  looking  literally  ghastly  with  fright.  But  she 
got  the  surprise  of  her  poor,  battered  little  life.  This 
man,  of  whom  she  had  stood  so  terribly  in  awe,  was 
the  kindest,  gentlest  soul  she  had  ever  met.  Before 
she  knew  what  happened  Mary  found  herself  pouring 
all  her  tro'ubles  into  his  ear  and  receiving  in  return 
such  sympathy  and  tender  understanding  as  it  had 
never  occurred  to  her  to  imagine.  Mary  left  the  study 
with  her  face  and  eyes  so  softened  that  Una  hardly 
knew  her. 

"Your  father's  all  right,  when  he  does  wake  up," 
she  said  with  a  sniff  that  just  escaped  being  a  sob. 
"It's  a  pity  he  doesn't  wake  up  oftener.  He  said  I 
wasn't  to  blame  for  Mrs.  Wiley  dying,  but  that  I  must 
try  to  think  of  her  good  points  and  not  of  her  bad  ones. 
I  dunno  what  good  points  she  had,  unless  it  was  keep- 
ing her  house  clean  and  making  first  class  butter.  I 
know  I  'most  wore  my  arms  out  scrubbing  her  old 
kitchen  floor  with  the  knots  in  it.  But  anything  your 
father  says  goes  with  me  after  this." 


90  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Mary  proved  a  rather  dull  companion  in  the  follow- 
ing days,  however.  She  confided  to  Una  that  the  more 
she  thought  of  going  back  to  the  asylum  the  more  she 
hated  it.  Una  racked  her  small  brains  for  some  way 
of  averting  it,  but  it  was  Nan  Blythe  who  came  to  the 
rescue  with  a  somewhat  startling  suggestion. 

"Mrs.  Elliott  might  take  Mary  herself.  She  has  a 
great  big-house  and  Mr.  Elliott  is  always  wanting  her 
to  have  help.  It  would  be  just  a  splendid  place  for 
Mary.  Only  she'd  have  to  behave  herself." 

"Oh,  Nan,  do  you  think  Mrs.  Elliott  would  take 
her?" 

"It  wouldn't  do  any  harm  if  you  asked  her,"  said 
Nan. 

At  first  Una  did  not  think  she  could.  She  was  so 
shy  that  to  ask  a  favour  of  anybody  was  agony  to  her. 
And  she  was  very  much  in  awe  of  the  bustling,  ener- 
getic Mrs.  Elliott.  She  liked  her  very  much  and 
always  enjoyed  a  visit  to  her  house ;  but  to  go  and  ask 
her  to  adopt  Mary  Vance  seemed  such  a  height  of 
presumption  that  Una's  timid  spirit  quailed. 

When  the  Hopetown  authorities  wrote  to  Mr. 
Meredith  to  send  Mary  to  them  without  delay  Mary 
cried  herself  to  sleep  in  the  manse  attic  that  night  and 
Una  found  a  desperate  courage.  The  next  evening 
she  slipped  away  from  the  manse  to  the  harbour  road. 
Far  down  in  Rainbow  Valley  she  heard  joyous  laugh- 
ter but  her  way  lay  not  there.  She  was  terribly  pale 
and  terribly  in  earnest — so  much  so  that  she  took  no 


UNA  INTERVENES  91 

notice  of  the  people  she  met — and  old  Mrs.  Stanley 
Flagg  was  quite  huffed  and  said  Una  Meredith  would 
be  as  absent-minded  as  her  father  when  she  grew  up. 

Miss  Cornelia  lived  half  way  between  the  Glen  and 
Four  Winds  Point,  in  a  house  whose  original  glaring 
green  hue  had  mellowed  down  to  an  agreeable  greenish 
gray.  Marshall  Elliott  had  planted  trees  about  it  and 
set  out  a  rose  garden  and  a  spruce  hedge.  It  was  quite 
a  different  place  from  what  it  had  been  in  years  agone. 
The  manse  children  and  the  Ingleside  children  liked  to 
go  there.  It  was  a  beautiful  walk  down  the  old  har- 
bour road,  and  there  was  always  a  well-filled  cooky 
jar  at  the  end. 

The  misty  sea  was  lapping  softly  far  down  on  the 
sands.  Three  big  boats  were  skimming  down  the  har- 
bour like  great  white  sea-birds.  A  schooner  was  com- 
ing up  the  channel.  The  world  of  Four  Winds  was 
steeped  in  glowing  colour,  and  subtle  music,  and 
strange  glamour,  and  everybody  should  have  been 
happy  in  it.  But  when  Una  turned  in  at  Miss  Cor- 
nelia's gate  her  very  legs  had  almost  refused  to  carry 
her. 

Miss  Cornelia  was  alone  on  the  veranda.  Una  had 
hoped  Mr.  Elliott  would  be  there.  He  was  so  big  and 
hearty  and  twinkly  that  there  would  be  encouragement 
in  his  presence.  She  sat  on  the  little  stool  Miss  Cor- 
nelia brought  out  and  tried  to  eat  the  doughnut  Miss 
Cornelia  gave  her.  It  stuck  in  her  throat,  but  she 
swallowed  desperately  lest  Miss  Cornelia  be  offended. 


92  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

She  could  not  talk;  she  was  still  pale;  and  her  big, 
dark-blue  eyes  looked  so  piteous  that  Miss  Cornelia 
concluded  the  child  was  in  some  trouble. 

"What's  on  your  mind,  dearie  ?"  she  asked.  "There's 
something,  that's  plain  to  be  seen." 

Una  swallowed  the  last  twist  of  doughnut  with  a 
desperate  gulp. 

"Mrs.  Elliott,  won't  you  take  Mary  Vance?"  she 
said  beseechingly. 

Miss  Cornelia  stared  blankly. 

"Me!  Take  Mary  Vance!  Do  you  mean  keep 
her?" 

"Yes — keep  her — adopt  her,"  said  Una  eagerly, 
gaining  courage  now  that  the  ice  was  broken.  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Elliott,  please  do.  She  doesn't  want  to  go  back 
to  the  asylum — she  cries  every  night  about  it.  She's 
so  af/aid  of  being  sent  to  another  hard  place.  And 
she's  so  smart — there  isn't  anything  she  can't  do.  I 
know  you  wouldn't  be  sorry  if  you  took  her." 

"I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Miss  Cor- 
nelia rather  helplessly. 

'Won't  you  think  of  it?"  implored  Una. 

"But,  dearie,  I  don't  want  help.  I'm  quite  able  to 
do  all  the  work  here.  And  I  never  thought  I'd  like 
to  have  a  home  girl  if  I  did  need  help." 

The  light  went  out  of  Una's  eyes.  Her  lips  trembled. 
She  sat  down  on  her  stool  again,  a  pathetic  little  figure 
of  disappointment,  and  began  to  cry. 

"Don't — dearie — don't,"  exclaimed  Miss  Cornelia  in 


UNA  INTERVENES  93 

distress.  She  could  never  bear  to  hurt  a  child.  "I  don't 
say  I  won't  take  her — but  the  idea  is  so  new  it  has  just 
kerflummuxed  me.  I  must  think  it  over." 

"Mary  is  so  smart,"  said  Una  again. 

"Humph!  So  I've  heard.  I've  heard  she  swears, 
too.  Is  that  true?" 

"I've  never  heard  her  swear — exactly"  faltered  Una 
uncomfortably.  "But  I'm  afraid  she  could/' 

"I  believe  you !    Does  she  always  tell  the  truth  ?" 

"I  think  she  does,  except  when  she's  afraid  of  a 
whipping." 

"And  yet  you  want  me  to  take  her  ?" 

"Some  one  has  to  take  her,"  sobbed  Una.  "Some 
one  has  to  look  after  her,  Mrs.  Elliott." 

"That's  true.  Perhaps  it  is  my  duty  to  do  it,"  said 
Miss  Cornelia  with  a  sigh.  "Well,  I'll  have  to  talk  it 
over  with  Mr.  Elliott  So  don't  say  anything  about  it 
just  yet  Take  another  doughnut,  dearie." 

Una  took  it  and  ate  it  with  a  better  appetite. 

"I'm  very  forid  of  doughnuts,"  she  confessed. 
"Aunt  Martha  never  makes  any.  But  Miss  Susan  at 
Ingleside  does,  and  sometimes  she  lets  us  have  a  plate- 
ful in  Rainbow  Valley.  Do  you  know  what  I  do  when 
I'm  hungry  for  doughnuts  and  can't  get  any,  Mrs. 
Elliott?" 

"No,  dearie.    What?" 

"I  get  out  mother's  old  cook  book  and  read  the 
doughnut  recipe — and  the  other  recipes.  They  sound 
so  nice.  I  always  do  that  when  I'm  hungry — especially 


94  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

after  we*ve  had  ditto  for  dinner.  Then  I  read  the 
fried  chicken  and  the  roast  goose  recipes.  Mother 
could  make  all  those  nice  things." 

"Those  manse  children  will  starve  to  death  yet  if 
Mr.  Meredith  doesn't  get  married,"  Miss  Cornelia  told 
her  husband  indignantly  after  Una  had  gone.  "And 
he  won't — and  what's  to  be  done  ?  And  shall  we  take 
this  Mary-creature,  Marshall?" 

"Yes,  take  her,"  said  Marshall  laconically. 

"Just  like  a  man,"  said  his  wife,  despairingly. 
"  'Take  her' — as  if  that  was  all.  There  are  a  hundred 
things  to  be  considered,  believe  me." 

"Take  her — and  we'll  consider  them  afterwards, 
Cornelia,"  said  her  husband. 

In  the  end  Miss  Cornelia  did  take  her  and  went  up 
to  announce  her  decision  to  the  Ingleside  people 
first. 

"Splendid !"  said  Anne  delightedly.  "I've  been  hop- 
ing you  would  do  that  very  thing,  Miss  Cornelia.  I 
want  that  poor  child  to  get  a  good  home.  7  was  a 
homeless  little  orphan  just  like  her  once." 

"I  don't  think  this  Mary-creature  is  or  ever  will  be 
much  like  you,"  retorted  Miss  Cornelia  gloomily. 
"She's  a  cat  of  another  colour.  But  she's  also  a  human 
being  with  an  immortal  soul  to  save.  I've  got  a  shorter 
catechism  and  a  small  tooth  comb  and  I'm  going  to  do 
my  duty  by  her,  now  that  I've  set  my  hand  to  the 
plough,  believe  me." 

Mary  received  the  news  with  chastened  satisfaction. 


UNA  INTERVENES  95 

"It's  better  luck  than  I  expected,"  she  said. 

"You'll  have  to  mind  your  p's  and  q's  with  Mrs. 
Elliott,"  said  Nan. 

"Well,  I  can  do  that,"  flashed  Mary.  "I  know  how 
to  behave  when  I  want  to  just  as  well  as  you,  Nan 
Blythe." 

"You  mustn't  use  bad  words,  you  know,  Mary,"  said 
Una  anxiously. 

"I  s'pose  she'd  die  of  horror  if  I  did,"  grinned  Mary, 
her  white  eyes  shining  with  unholy  glee  over  the  idea. 
"But  you  needn't  worry,  Una,  Butter  won't  melt  in 
my  mouth  after  this.  I'll  be  all  prunes  and  prisms." 

"Nor  tell  lies,"  added  Faith. 

"Not  even  to  get  off  from  a  whipping?"  pleaded 
Mary. 

"Mrs.  Elliott  will  never  whip  you — never"  ex- 
claimed Di. 

"Won't  she  ?"  said  Mary  skeptically.  "If  I  ever  find 
myself  in  a  place  where  I  ain't  licked  I'll  think  it's 
heaven  all  right.  No  fear  of  me  telling  lies  then.  I 
ain't  fond  of  telling  'em — I'd  ruther  not,  if  it  comes 
to  that." 

The  day  before  Mary's  departure  from  the  manse 
they  had  a  picnic  in  her  honour  in  Rainbow  Valley, 
and  that  evening  all  the  manse  children  gave  her  some- 
thing from  their  scanty  store  of  treasured  things  for 
a  keepsake.  Carl  gave  her  his  Noah's  ark  and  Jerry 
his  second  best  jews-harp.  Faith  gave  her  a  little  hair 
brush  with  a  mirror  in  the  back  of  it,  which  Mary  had 


96  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

always  considered  very  wonderful.  Una  hesitated  be- 
tween an  old  beaded  purse  and  a  gay  picture  of  Daniel 
in  the  lion's  den,  and  finally  offered  Mary  her  choice. 
Mary  really  hankered  after  the  beaded  purse,  but  °he 
knew  Una  loved  it,  so  she  said, 

"Give  me  Daniel.  I'd  rather  have  it  'cause  I'm 
partial  to  lions.  Only  I  wish  they'd  et  Daniel  up.  It 
would  have  been  more  exciting." 

At  bedtime  Mary  coaxed  Una  to  sleep  with  her. 

"It's  for  the  last  time,"  she  said,  "and  it's  raining 
to-night,  and  I  hate  sleeping  up  there  alone  when  it's 
raining  on  account  of  that  graveyard.  I  don't  mind 
it  on  fine  nights,  but  a  night  like  this  I  can't  see  any- 
thing but  the  rain  pouring  down  on  them  old  white 
stones,  and  the  wind  round  the  window  sounds  as  if 
them  dead  people  were  trying  to  get  in  and  crying 
'cause  they  couldn't." 

"I  like  rainy  nights,"  said  Una,  when  they  were 
cuddled  down  together  in  the  little  attic  room,  "and 
so  do  the  Blythe  girls." 

"I  don't  mind  'em  when  I'm  not  handy  to  grave- 
yards," said  Mary.  "If  I  was  alone  here  I'd  cry  my 
eyes  out  I'd  be  so  lonesome.  I  feel  awful  bad  to  be 
leaving  you  all." 

"Mrs.  Elliott  will  let  you  come  up  and  play  in  Rain- 
bow Valley  quite  often  I'm  sure,"  said  Una.  "And 
you  will  be  a  good  girl,  won't  you,  Mary  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  try,"  sighed  Mary.  "But  it  won't  be  as 
easy  for  me  to  be  good — inside,  I  mean,  as  well  as  out- 


UNA  INTERVENES  97 

side — as  it  is  for  you.  You  hadn't  such  scalawags  of 
relations  as  I  had." 

"But  your  people  must  have  had  some  good  qualities 
as  well  as  bad  ones,"  argued  Una.  "You  must  live  up 
to  them  and  never  mind  their  bad  ones." 

"I  don't  believe  they  had  any  good  qualities,"  said 
Mary  gloomily.  "I  never  heard  of  any.  My  grand- 
father had  money,  but  they  say  he  was  a  rascal.  No, 
I'll  just  have  to  start  out  on  my  own  hook  and  do  the 
best  I  can." 

"And  God  will  'help  you,  you  know,  Mary,  if  you  ask 
Him." 

"I  don't  know  about  that." 

"Oh,  Mary.  You  know  we  asked  God  to  get  a  home 
for  you  and  He  did." 

"I  don't  see  what  He  had  to  do  with  it,"  retorted 
Mary.  "It  was  you  put  it  into  Mrs.  Elliott's  head." 

"But  God  put  it  into  her  heart  to  take  you.  All  my 
putting  it  into  her  head  wouldn't  have  done  any  good 
if  He  hadn't." 

"Well,  there  may  be  something  in  that,"  admitted 
Mary.  "Mind  you,  I  haven't  got  anything  against 
God,  Una.  I'm  willing  to  give  Him  a  chance.  But, 
honest,  I  think  He's  an  awful  lot  like  your  father — 
just  absent-minded  and  never  taking  any  notice  of  a. 
body  most  of  the  time,  but  sometimes  waking  up  all 
of  a  suddent  and  being  awful  good  and  kind  and  sensi- 
ble." 

"Oh,  Mary,  no!"  exclaimed  horrified  Una.     "God 


98  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

isn't  a  bit  like  father — I  mean  He's  a  thousand  times 
better  and  kinder." 

"If  He's  as  good  as  your  father  He'll  do  for  me," 
said  Mary.  "When  your  father  was  talking  to  me  I 
felt  as  if  I  never  could  be  bad  any  more." 

"I  wish  you'd  talk  to  father  about  Him,"  sighed 
Una.  "He  can  explain  it  all  so  much  better  than  I 
can." 

"Why,  so  I  will,  next  time  he  wakes  up,"  promised 
Mary.  "That  night  he  talked  to  me  in  the  study  he 
showed  me  real  clear  that  my  praying  didn't  kill  Mrs. 
Wiley.  My  mind's  been  easy  since,  but  I'm  real  cau- 
tious about  praying.  I  guess  the  old  rhyme  is  the 
safest.  Say,  Una,  it  seems  to  me  if  one  has  to  pray 
to  anybody  it'd  be  better  to  pray  to  the  devil  than  to 
God.  God's  good,  anyhow,  so  you  say,  so  He  won't 
do  you  any  harm,  but  from  all  I  can  make  out  the 
devil  needs  to  be  peacified.  7  think  the  sensible  way 
would  be  to  say  to  him,  'Good  devil,  please  don't  tempt 
me.  Just  leave  me  alone,  please.'  Now,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Mary.  I'm  sure  it  couldn't  be  right 
to  pray  to  the  devil.  And  it  wouldn't  do  any  good 
because  he's  bad.  It  might  aggravate  him  and  he'd  be 
worse  than  ever." 

"Well,  as  to  this  God-matter,"  said  Mary  stub- 
bornly, "since  you  and  I  can't  settle  it,  there  ain't  no 
use  in  talking  more  about  it  until  we've  a  chanct  to 
find  out  the  rights  of  it.  I'l  do  the  best  I  can  atone  till 
then." 


UNA  INTERVENES  99 

"If  mother  was  alive  she  could  tell  us  everything," 
said  Una  with  a  sigh. 

"I  wisht  she  was  alive,"  said  Mary.  "I  don't  know 
what's  going  to  become  of  you  youngsters  when  I'm 
gone.  Anyhow,  do  try  and  keep  the  house  a  little  tidy. 
The  way  people  talks  about  it  is  scandalous.  And  first 
thing  you  know  your  father  will  be  getting  married 
again  and  then  your  noses  will  be  out  of  joint." 

Una  was  startled.  The  idea  of  her  father  marrying 
again  had  never  presented  itself  to  her  before.  She 
did  not  like  it  and  she  lay  silent  under  the  chill  of  it. 

"Stepmothers  are  awful  creatures,"  Mary  went  on. 
"I  could  make  your  blood  run  cold  if  I  was  to  tell  you 
all  I  know  about  'em.  The  Wilson  kids  across  the 
road  from  Wileys'  had  a  stepmother.  She  was  just 
as  bad  to  'em  as  Mrs.  Wiley  was  to  me.  It'll  be  awful 
if  you  get  a  stepmother." 

"I'm  sure  we  won't,"  said  Una  tremulously.  "Father 
won't  marry  anybody,  else." 

"He'll  be  hounded  into  it,  I  expect,"  said  Mary 
darkly.  "All  the  old  maids  in  the  settlement  are  after 
him.  There's  no  being  up  to  them.  And  the  worst  of 
stepmothers  is,  they  always  set  your  father  against 
you.  He'd  never  care  anything  about  you  again.  He'd 
always  take  her  part  and  her  children's  part.  You  see, 
she'd  make  him  believe  you  were  all  bad." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me  this,  Mary,"  cried  Una. 
"It  makes  me  feel  so  unhappy." 

"I  only  wanted  to  warn  you,"  said  Mary,  rather 


loo  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

repentantly.  "Of  course,  your  father's  so  absent- 
minded  he  mightn't  happen  to  think  of  getting  married 
again.  But  it's  better  to  be  prepared." 

Long  after  Mary  slept  serenely  little  Una  lay  awake, 
her  eyes  smarting  with  tears.  Oh,  how  dreadful  it 
would  be  if  her  father  should  marry  somebody  who 
would  make  him  hate  her  and  Jerry  and  Faith  and 
Carl !  She  couldn't  bear  it — she  couldn't ! 

Mary  had  not  instilled  any  poison  of  the  kind  Miss 
Cornelia  had  feared  into  the  manse  children's  minds. 
Yets&e  had  certainly  contrived  to  do  a  little  mischief 
with?  the  best  of  intentions.  But  she  slept  dreamlessly, 
while  Una  lay  awake  and  the  rain  fell  and  the  wind 
wailed  around  the  old  gray  manse.  And  the  Rev. 
John  Meredith  forgot  to  go  to  bed  at  all  because  he 
was  absorbed  in  reading  a  life  of  St  Augustine.  It 
was  gray  dawn  when  he  finished  it  and  went  upstairs, 
wrestling  with  the  problems  of  two  thousand  years 
ago.  The  door  of  the  girls'  room  was  open  and  he 
saw  Faith  lying  asleep,  rosy  and  beautiful.  He  won- 
dered where  Una  was.  Perhaps  she  had  gone  over  to 
"stay  all  night"  with  the  Blythe  girls.  She  did  this 
occasionally,  deeming  it  a  great  treat.  John  Meredith 
sighed.  He  felt  that  Una's  whereabouts  ought  not  to 
be  a  mystery  to  him,  Cecilia  would  have  looked  after 
her  better  than  that. 

If  only  Cecilia  were  still  with  him!  How  pretty 
and  gay  she  had  been!  How  the  old  manse  up  at 
Maywater  had  echoed  to  her  songs!  And  she  had 


UNA  INTERVENES  101 

gone  away  so  suddenly,  taking  her  laughter  and  music 
and  leaving  silence — so  suddenly  that  he  had  never 
quite  got  over  his  feeling  of  amazement  How  could 
she,  the  beautiful  and  vivid,  have  died? 

The  idea  of  a  second  marriage  had  never  presented 
itself  seriously  to  John  Meredith.  He  had  loved  his 
wife  so  deeply  that  he  believed  he  could  never  care  for 
any  woman  again.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  before 
very  long  Faith  would  be  old  enough  to  take  her 
mother's  place.  Until  then,  he  must  do  the  best  he 
could  alone.  He  sighed  and  went  to  his  room,  where 
the  bed  was  still  unmade.  Aunt  Martha  had  forgotten 
it,  and  Mary  had  not  dared  to  make  it  because  Aunt 
Martha  had  forbidden  her  to  meddle  with  anything  in 
the  minister's  room.  But  Mr.  Meredith  did  not  notice 
that  it  was  unmade.  His  last  thoughts  were  of  St 
Augustine. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  MANSE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE 

"T  TGH,"  said  Faith,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  shiver. 

\_J  "It's  raining.  I  do  hate  a  rainy  Sunday.  Sun- 
day is  dull  enough  even  when  it's  fine." 

"We  oughtn't  to  find  Sunday  dull,"  said  Una 
sleepily,  trying  to  pull  her  drowsy  wits  together  with 
an  uneasy  conviction  that  they  had  overslept. 

"But  we  do,  you  know,"  said  Faith  candidly.  "Mary 
Vance  says  most  Sundays  are  so  dull  she  could  hang 
herself." 

"We  ought  to  like  Sunday  better  than  Mary  Vance," 
said  Una  remorsefully.  "We're  the  minister's  chil- 
dren." 

"I  wish  we  were  a  blacksmith's  children,"  protested 
Faith  angrily,  hunting  for  her  stockings.  "Then  people 
wouldn't  expect  us  to  be  better  than  other  children. 
Just  look  at  the  holes  in  my  heels.  Mary  darned  them 
all  up  before  she  went  away,  but  they're  as  bad  as  ever 
now.  Una,  get  up.  I  can't  get  the  breakfast  alone. 
Oh,  dear.  I  wish  father  and  Jerry  were  home.  You 
wouldn't  think  we'd  miss  father  much — we  don't  see 
much  of  him  when  he  is  home.  And  yet  everything 
seems  gone.  I  must  run  in  and  see  how  Aunt  Martha 
is." 

102 


THE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE         103 

"Is  she  any  better?"  asked  Una,  when  Faith  re- 
turned. 

"No,  she  isn't.  She's  groaning  with  the  misery  still. 
Maybe  we  ought  to  tell  Dr.  Blythe.  But  she  says  not — 
she  never  had  a  doctor  in  her  life  and  she  isn't  going 
to  begin  now.  She  says  doctors  just  live  by  poisoning 
people.  Do  you  suppose  they  do?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Una  indignantly.  "I'm 
sure  Dr.  Blythe  wouldn't  poison  anybody." 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  rub  Aunt  Martha's  back  again 
after  breakfast.  We'd  better  not  make  the  flannels 
as  hot  as  we  did  yesterday." 

Faith  giggled  over  the  remembrance.  They  had 
nearly  scalded  the  skin  off  poor  Aunt  Martha's  back. 
Una  sighed.  Mary  Vance  would  have  known  just 
what  the  precise  temperature  of  flannels  for  a  misery 
back  should  be.  Mary  knew  everything.  They  knew 
nothing.  And  how  could  they  learn,  save  by  bitter 
experience  for  which,  in  this  instance,  unfortunate 
Aunt  Martha  had  paid? 

The  preceding  Monday  Mr.  Meredith  had  left  for 
Nova  Scotia  to  spend  his  short  vacation,  taking  Jerry 
with  him.  On  Wednesday  Aunt  Martha  was  suddenly 
seized  with  a  recurring  and  mysterious  ailment  which 
she  always  called  "the  misery,"  and  which  was  toler- 
ably certain  to  attack  her  at  the  most  inconvenient 
times.  She  could  not  rise  from  her  bed,  any  movement 
causing  agony.  A  doctor  she  flatly  refused  to  have. 
Faith  and  Una  cooked  the  meals  and  waited  on  her. 


104  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

The  less  said  about  the  meals  the  better — yet  they  were 
not  much  worse  than  Aunt  Martha's  had  been.  There 
were  many  women  in  the  village  who  would  have  been 
glad  to  come  and  help,  but  Aunt  Martha  refused  to  let 
her  plight  be  known. 

"You  must  worry  on  till  I  kin  git  around,"  she 
groaned.  "Thank  goodness,  John  isn't  here.  There's 
a  plenty  o'  cold  biled  meat  and  bread  and  you  kin  try 
your  hand  at  making  porridge." 

The  girls  had  tried  their  hand,  but  so  far  without 
much  success.  The  first  day  it  had  been  too  thin. 
The  next  day  so  thick  that  you  could  cut  it  in  slices. 
And  both  days  it  had  been  burned. 

"I  hate  porridge,"  said  Faith  viciously.  "When 
I  have  a  house  of  my  own  I'm  never  going  to  have 
a  single  bit  of  porridge  in  it." 

"What'll  your  children  do  then?"  asked  Una. 
"Children  have  to  have  porridge  or  they  won't  grow. 
Everybody  says  so." 

"They'll  have  to  get  along  without  it  or  stay  runts," 
retorted  Faith  stubbornly.  "Here,  Una,  you  stir  it 
while  I  set  the  table.  If  I  leave  it  for  a  minute  the 
horrid  stuff  will  burn.  It's  half  past  nine.  We'll  be 
late  for  Sunday  School." 

"I  haven't  seen  any  one  going  past  yet,"  said  Una. 
"There  won't  likely  be  many  out.  Just  see  how  it's 
pouring.  And  when  there's  no  preaching  the  folks 
won't  come  from  a  distance  to  bring  the  children." 

"Go  and  call  Carl,"  said  Faith. 


THE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE         105 

Carl,  it  appeared,  had  a  sore  throat,  induced  by  get- 
ting wet  in  the  Rainbow  Valley  marsh  the  previous 
evening  while  pursuing  dragon-flies.  He  had  come 
home  with  dripping  stockings  and  boots  and  had  sat 
out  the  evening  in  them.  He  could  not  eat  any  break- 
fast and  Faith  made  him  go  back  to  bed  again.  She 
and  Una  left  the  table  as  it  was  and  went  to  Sunday 
School.  There  was  no  one  in  the  school  room  when 
they  got  there  and  no  one  came.  They  waited  until 
eleven  and  then  went  home. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anybody  at  the  Methodist 
Sunday  School  either,"  said  Una. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Faith.  "I'd  hate  to  think  the  Meth- 
odists were  better  at  going  to  Sunday  School  on  rainy 
Sundays  than  the  Presbyterians.  But  there's  no 
preaching  in  their  Church  to-day,  either,  so  likely  their 
Sunday  School  is  in  the  afternoon." 

Una  washed  the  dishes,  doing  them  quite  nicely,  for 
so  much  had  she  learned  from  Mary  Vance.  Faith 
swept  the  floor  after  a  fashion  and  peeled  the  potatoes 
for  dinner,  cutting  her  finger  in  the  process. 

"I  wish  we  had  something  for  dinner  besides  ditto," 
sighed  Una.  "I'm  so  tired  of  it.  The  Blythe  children 
don't  know  what  ditto  is.  And  we  never  have  any 
pudding.  Nan  says  Susan  would  faint  if  they  had  no 
pudding  on  Sundays.  Why  aren't  we  like  other  people, 
Faith?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  like  other  people,"  laughed  Faith, 
tying  up  her  bleeding  finger.  "I  like  being  myself. 


106  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

It's  more  interesting.  Jessie  Drew  is  as  good  a  house- 
keeper as  her  mother,  but  would  you  want  to  be  as 
stupid  as  she  is?" 

"But  our  house  isn't  right.  Mary  Vance  says  so. 
She  says  people  talk  about  it  being  so  untidy." 

Faith  had  an  inspiration. 

"We'll  clean  it  all  up,"  she  cried.  "We'll  go  right 
to  work  to-morrow.  It's  a  real  good  chance  when 
Aunt  Martha  is  laid  up  and  can't  interfere  with  us. 
We'll  have  it  all  lovely  and  clean  when  father  comes 
home,  just  like  it  was  when  Mary  went  away.  Any 
one  can  sweep  and  dust  and  wash  windows.  People 
won't  be  able  to  talk  about  us  any  more.  Jem  Blythe 
says  it's  only  old  cats  that  talk,  but  their  talk  hurts 
just  as  much  as  anybody's." 

"I  hope  it  will  be  fine  to-morrow,"  said  Una,  fired 
with  enthusiasm.  "Oh,  Faith,  it  will  be  splendid  to  be 
all  cleaned  up  and  like  other  people." 

"I  hope  Aunt  Martha's  misery  will  last  over  to-mor- 
row," said  Faith.  "If  it  doesn't  we  won't  get  a  single 
thing  done." 

Faith's  amiable  wish  was  fulfilled.  The  next  day 
found  Aunt  Martha  still  unable  to  rise.  Carl,  too,  was 
still  sick  and  easily  prevailed  on  to  stay  in  bed. 
Neither  Faith  nor  Una  had  any  idea  how  sick  the  boy 
really  was ;  a  watchful  mother  would  have  had  a  doctor 
without  delay ;  but  there  was  no  mother,  and  poor  little 
Carl,  with  his  sore  throat  and  aching  head  and  crimson 
cheeks,  rolled  himself  up  in  his  twisted  bedclothes  and 


THE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE         107 

suffered  alone,  somewhat  comforted  by  the  companion- 
ship of  a  small  green  lizard  in  the  pocket  of  his  ragged 
nighty. 

The  world  was  full  of  summer  sunshine  after  the 
rain.  It  was  a  peerless  day  for  housecleaning  and 
Faith  and  Una  went  gaily  to  work. 

"We'll  clean  the  dining  room  and  the  parlor,"  said 
Faith.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  meddle  with  the  study,  and 
it  doesn't  matter  much  about  the  upstairs.  The  first 
thing  is  to  take  everything  out." 

Accordingly,  everything  was  taken  out.  The  furni- 
ture was  piled  on  the  veranda  and  lawn  and  the  Meth- 
odist graveyard  fence  was  gaily  draped  with  rugs.  -An 
orgy  of  sweeping  followed,  with  an  attempt  at  dusting 
on  Una's  part,  while  Faith  washed  the  windows  of  the 
dining  room,  breaking  one  pane  and  cracking  two  in 
the  process.  Una  surveyed  the  streaked  result  dubi- 
ously. 

"They  don't  look  right,  somehow,"  she  said.  "Mrs. 
Elliott's  and  Susan's  windows  just  shine  and  sparkle." 

"Never  mind.  They  let  the  sunshine  through  just 
as  well,"  said  Faith  cheerfully.  "They  must  be  clean 
after  all  the  soap  and  water  I've  used,  and  that's  the 
main  thing.  Now,  it's  past  eleven,  so  I'll  wipe  up  this 
mess  on  the  floor  and  we'll  go  outside.  You  dust  the 
furniture  and  I'll  shake  the  rugs.  I'm  going  to  do  it 
in  the  graveyard.  I  don't  want  to  send  dust  flying  all 
over  the  lawn." 

Faith  enjoyed  the  rug  shaking.    To  stand  on  Heze- 


io8  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

kiah  Pollock's  tombstone,  flapping  and  shaking  rugs, 
was  real  fun.  To  be  sure,  Elder  Abraham  Clow  and 
his  wife,  driving  past  in  their  capacious  double-seated 
buggy,  seemed  to  gaze  at  her  in  grim  disapproval. 

"Isn't  that  a  terrible  sight?"  said  Elder  Abraham 
solemnly. 

"I  would  never  have  believed  it  if  I  hadn't  seen  it 
with  my  own  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Elder  Abraham,  more 
solemnly  still. 

Faith  waved  a  door  mat  cheerily  at  the  Clow  party. 
It  did  not  worry  her  that  the  elder  and  his  wife  did 
not  return  her  greeting.  Everybody  knew  that  Elder 
Abraham  had  never  been  known  to  smile  since  he  had 
been  appointed  Superintendent  of  the  Sunday  School 
fourteen  years  previously.  But  it  hurt  her  that  Minnie 
and  Adella  Clow  did  not  wave  back.  Faith  liked 
Minnie  and  Adella.  Next  to  the  Blythes,  they  were 
her  best  friends  in  school  and  she  always  helped  Adella 
with  her  sums.  This  was  gratitude  for  you.  Her 
friends  cut  her  because  she  was  shaking  rugs  in  an  old 
graveyard  where,  as  Mary  Vance  said,  not  a  living 
soul  had  been  buried  for  years.  Faith  flounced  around 
to  the  veranda,  where  she  found  Una  grieved  in 
spirit  because  the  Clow  girls  had  not  waved  to  her, 
either. 

"I  suppose  they're  mad  over  something,"  said  Faith. 
"Perhaps  they're  jealous  because  we  play  so  much  in 
Rainbow  Valley  with  the  Blythes.  Well,  just  wait  till 
school  opens  and  Adella  wants  me  to  show  her  how  to 


THE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE         109 

do  her  sums!  We'll  get  square  then.  Come  on,  let's 
put  the  things  back  in.  I'm  tired  to  death  and  I  don't 
believe  the  rooms  will  look  much  better  than  before  we 
started — though  I  shook  out  pecks  of  dust  in  the 
graveyard.  I  hate  house-cleaning." 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  the  tired  girls  finished  the 
two  rooms.  They  got  a  dreary  bite  in  the  kitchen  and 
intended  to  wash  the  dishes  at  once.  But  Faith  hap- 
pened to  pick  up  a  new  story  book  Di  Blythe  had  lent 
her  and  was  lost  to  the  world  until  sunset.  Una  took 
a  cup  of  rank  tea  up  to  Carl  but  found  him  asleep ;  so 
she  curled  herself  up  on  Jerry's  bed  and  went  to  sleep 
too.  Meanwhile,  a  weird  story  flew  through  Glen  St. 
Mary  and  folks  asked  each  other  seriously  what  was 
to  be  done  with  those  manse  youngsters. 

"This  is  past  laughing  at,  believe  me,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia  to  her  husband,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "I  couldn't 
believe  it  at  first.  Miranda  Drew  brought  the  story 
home  from  the  Methodist  Sunday  School  this  after- 
noon and  I  simply  scoffed  at  it.  But  Mrs.  Elder  Abra- 
ham says  she  and  the  Elder  saw  it  with  their  own 
eyes." 

"Saw  what  ?"  asked  Marshall. 

"Faith  and  Una  Meredith  stayed  home  from  Sunday 
School  this  morning  and  cleaned  house,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia,  in  accents  of  despair.  "When  Elder  Abraham 
went  home  from  the  church — he  had  stayed  behind 
to  straighten  out  the  library  books — he  saw  them  shak- 
ing rugs  in  the  Methodist  graveyard.  I  can  never  look 


no  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

a  Methodist  in  the  face  again.  Just  think  what  a 
scandal  it  will  make !" 

A  scandal  it  assuredly  did  make,  growing  more 
scandalous  as  it  spread,  until  the  over-harbour  people 
heard  that  the  manse  children  had  not  only  cleaned 
house  and  put  out  a  washing  on  Sunday,  but  had 
wound  up  with  an  afternoon  picnic  in  the  graveyard 
while  the  Methodist  Sunday  School  was  going  on.  The 
only  household  which  remained  in  blissful  ignorance 
of  the  terrible  thing  was  the  manse  itself;  on  what 
Faith  and  Una  fondly  believed  to  be  Tuesday  it  rained 
again ;  for  the  next  three  days  it  rained ;  nobody  came 
near  the  manse;  the  manse  folk  went  nowhere;  they 
might  have  waded  through  the  misty  Rainbow  Valley 
up  to  Ingleside,  but  all  the  Blythe  family,  save  Susan 
and  the  doctor,  were  away  on  a  visit  to  Avonlea. 

"This  is  the  last  of  our  bread,"  said  Faith,  "and  the 
ditto  is  done.  If  Aunt  Martha  doesn't  get  better  soon 
what  will  we  do?" 

"We  can  buy  some  bread  in  the  village  and  there's 
the  codfish  Mary  dried,"  said  Una.  "But  we  don't 
know  how  to  cook  it." 

"Oh,  that's  easy,"  laughed  Faith.  "You  just  boil  it." 

Boil  it  they  did;  but  as  it  did  not  occur  to  them  to 
soak  it  beforehand  it  was  too  salt  to  eat.  That  night 
they  were  very  hungry ;  but  by  the  following  day  their 
troubles  were  Over.  Sunshine  returned  to  the  world; 
Carl  was  well  and  Aunt  Martha's  misery  left  her  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  come;  the  butcher  called  at  tfae 


THE  GIRLS  CLEAN  HOUSE         ill 

manse  and  chased  famine  away.  To  crown  all,  the 
Blythes  returned  home,  and  that  evening  they  and 
the  manse  children  and  Mary  Vance  kept  sunset  tryst 
once  more  in  Rainbow  Valley,  where  the  daisies  were 
floating  upon  the  grass  like  spirits  of  the  dew  and  the 
bells  on  the  Tree  Lovers  rang  like  fairy  chimes  in  the 
scented  twilight. 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  DREADFUL  DISCOVERY 

"T  XT  ELL,  you  kids  have  gone  and  done  it  now," 

V  V  was  Mary's  greeting,  as  she  joined  them  in 
the  Valley.  Miss  Cornelia  was  up  at  Ingleside,  hold- 
ing agonized  conclave  with  Anne  and  Susan,  and  Mary 
hoped  that  the  session  might  be  a  long  one,  for  it  was 
all  of  two  weeks  since  she  had  been  allowed  to  revel 
with  her  chums  in  the  dear  valley  of  rainbows. 

"Done  what?"  demanded  everybody  but  Walter, 
who  was  day-dreaming  as  usual. 

"It's  you  manse  young  ones,  I  mean,"  said  Mary. 
"It  was  just  awful  of  you.  /  wouldn't  have  done  such 
a  thing  for  the  world,  and  /  weren't  brought  up  in  a 
manse, — weren't  brought  up  anywhere — just  come  up." 

"What  have  we  done  ?"  asked  Faith  blankly. 

"Done!  You'd  better  ask!  The  talk  is  something 
terrible.  I  expect  it's  ruined  your  father  in  this  con- 
gregation. He'll  never  be  able  to  live  it  down,  poor 
man!  Everybody  blames  him  for  it,  and  that  isn't 
fair.  But  nothing  is  fair  in  this  world.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourselves." 

"What  have  we  done?"  asked  Una  again,  despair- 
ingly. Faith  said  nothing,  but  her  eyes  flashed  golden- 
brown  scorn  at  Mary. 

112 


A  DREADFUL  DISCOVERY          113 

"Oh,  don't  pretend  innocence,"  said  Mary,  wither- 
ingly.  "Everybody  knows  what  you've  done." 

"/  don't,"  interjected  Jem  Blythe  indignantly. 
"Don't  let  me  catch  you  making  Una  cry,  Mary  Vance. 
What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"I  s'pose  you  don't  know,  since  you're  just  back 
from  up  west,"  said  Mary,  somewhat  subdued.  Jem 
could  always  manage  her.  "But  everybody  else  knows, 
you'd  better  believe," 

"Knows  what?" 

"That  Faith  and  Una  stayed  home  from  Sunday 
School  last  Sunday  and  cleaned  house." 

"We  didn't,"  cried  Faith  and  Una,  in  passionate 
denial. 

Mary  looked  haughtily  at  them. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you'd  deny  it,  after  the  way  you've 
combed  me  down  for  lying,"  she  said.  "What's  the 
good  of  saying  you  didn't?  Everybody  knows  you 
did.  Elder  Clow  and  his  wife  saw  you.  Some  people 
say  it  will  break  up  the  church,  but  7  don't  go  that  far. 
You  are  nice  ones." 

Nan  Blythe  stood  up  and  put  her  arms  around  the 
dazed  Faith  and  Una. 

"They  were  nice  enough  to  take  you  in  and  feed 
you  and  clothe  you  when  you  were  starving  in  Mr. 
Taylor's  barn,  Mary  Vance,"  she  said.  "You  are  very 
grateful,  I  must  say." 

"I  am  grateful,"  retorted  Mary.  "You'd  know  it 
if  you'd  heard  me  standing  up  for  Mr.  Meredith 


114  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

through  thick  and  thin.  I've  blistered  my  tongue  talk- 
ing for  him  this  week.  I've  said  again  and  again  that 
he  isn't  to  blame  if  his  young  ones  did  clean  house  on 
Sunday.  He  was  away — and  they  knew  better." 

"But  we  didn't,"  protested  Una.  "It  was  Monday 
we  cleaned  house.  Wasn't  it,  Faith  ?" 

"Of  course  it  was,"  said  Faith,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"We  went  to  Sunday  School  in  spite  of  the  rain — and 
no  one  came — not  even  Elder  Abraham,  for  all  his 
talk  about  fair-weather  Christians." 

"It  was  Saturday  it  rained,"  said  Mary.  "Sunday 
was  fine  as  silk.  I  wasn't  at  Sunday  School  because 
I  had  toothache,  but  every  one  else  was  and  they  saw 
all  your  stuff  out  on  the  lawn.  And  Elder  Abraham 
and  Mrs.  Elder  Abraham  saw  you  shaking  rugs  in  the 
graveyard." 

Una  sat  down  among  the  daisies  and  began  to  cry. 

"Look  here,"  said  Jem  resolutely,  "this  thing  must 
be  cleared  up.  Somebody  has  made  a  mistake.  Sun- 
day was  fine,  Faith.  How  could  you  have  thought 
Saturday  was  Sunday?" 

"Prayer  meeting  was  Thursday  night,"  cried  Faith, 
"and  Adam  flew  into  the  soup-pot  on  Friday  when 
Aunt  Martha's  cat  chased  him,  and  spoiled  our  dinner ; 
and  Saturday  there  was  a  snake  in  the  cellar  and  Carl 
caught  it  with  a  forked  stick  and  carried  it  out,  and 
Sunday  it  rained.  So  there!" 

"Prayer  meeting  was  Wednesday  night,"  said  Mary. 
"Elder  Baxter  was  to  lead  and  he  couldn't  go  Thurs- 


A  DREADFUL  DISCOVERY          115 

day  night  and  it  was  changed  to  Wednesday.  You 
were  just  a  day  out,  Faith  Meredith,  and  you  did  work 
on  Sunday." 

Suddenly  Faith  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"I  suppose  we  did.    What  a  joke !" 

"It  isn't  much  of  a  joke  for  your  father,"  said  Mary 
sourly. 

"It'll  be  all  right  when  people  find  out  it  was  just  a 
mistake,"  said  Faith  carelessly.  "We'll  explain." 

"You  can  explain  till  you're  black  in  the  face,"  said 
Mary,  "but  a  lie  like  that'll  travel  f aster'n  further  than 
you  ever  will,  /'ve  seen  more  of  the  world  than  you 
and  7  know.  Besides,  there  are  plenty  of  folks  won't 
believe  it  was  a  mistake." 

"They  will  if  I  tell  them,"  said  Faith. 

"You  can't  tell  everybody,"  said  Mary.  "No,  I  tell 
you  you've  disgraced  your  father." 

Una's  evening  was  spoiled  by  this  dire  reflection,  but 
Faith  refused  to  be  made  uncomfortable.  Besides,  she 
had  a  plan  that  would  put  everything  right.  So  she 
put  the  past  with  its  mistake  behind  her  and  gave  her- 
herself  over  to  enjoyment  of  the  present.  Jem  went 
away  to  fish  and  Walter  came  out  of  his  reverie  and 
proceeded  to  describe  the  woods  of  heaven.  Mary 
pricked  up  her  ears  and  listened  respectfully.  Despite 
her  awe  of  Walter  she  revelled  in  his  "book  talk."  It 
always  gave  her  a  delightful  sensation.  Walter  had 
been  reading  his  Coleridge  that  day,  and  he  pictured 
a  heaven  where 


ii6  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"There  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rilk 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense  bearing  tree, 
And  there  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery." 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  any  wood's  in  heaven," 
said  Mary,  with  a  long  breath.  "I  thought  it  was  all 
streets — and  streets — and  streets." 

"Of  course  there  are  woods,"  said  Nan.  "Mother 
can't  live  without  trees  and  I  can't,  so  what  would  be 
the  use  of  going  to  heaven  if  there  weren't  any  trees  ?" 

"There  are  cities,  too,"  said  the  young  dreamer, 
"splendid  cities — coloured  just  like  that  sunset,  with 
sapphire  towers  and  rainbow  domes.  They  are  built 
of  gold  and  diamonds — whole  streets  of  diamonds, 
flashing  like  the  sun.  In  the  squares  there  are  crystal 
fountains  kissed  by  the  light,  and  everywhere  the 
asphodel  blooms — the  flower  of  heaven." 

"Fancy!"  said  Mary.  "I  saw  the  main  street  in 
Charlottetown  once  and  I  thought  it  was  real  grand, 
but  I  s'pose  it's  nothing  to  heaven.  Well,  it  all  sounds 
gorgeous  the  way  you  tell  it,  but  won't  it  be  kind  of 
dull,  too?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  can  have  some  fun  when  the  angels' 
backs  are  turned,"  said  Faith  comfortably. 

"Heaven  is  all  fun,"  declared  Di. 

"The  Bible  doesn't  say  so,"  cried  Mary,  who  had 
read  so  much  of  the  Bible  on  Sunday  afternoons  under 
Miss  Cornelia's  eye  that  she  now  considered  herself 
quite  an  authority  on  it. 


A  DREADFUL  DISCOVERY          117 

"Mother  says  the  Bible  language  is  figurative,"  said 
Nan. 

"Does  that  mean  that  it  isn't  true?"  asked  Mary 
hopefully. 

"No — not  exactly — but  I  think  it  means  that  heaven 
will  be  just  like  what  you'd  like  it  to  be." 

"I'd  like  it  to  be  just  like  Rainbow  Valley,"  said 
Mary,  "with  all  you  kids  to  gas  and  play  with.  That's 
good  enough  for  me.  Anyhow,  we  can't  go  to  heaven 
till  we're  dead  and  maybe  not  then,  so  what's  the  use 
of  worrying?  Here's  Jem  with  a  string  of  trout  and 
it's  my  turn  to  fry  them." 

"We  ought  to  know  more  about  heaven  than  Walter 
does  when  we're  the  minister's  family,"  said  Una,  as 
they  walked  home  that  night. 

"We  know  just  as  much,  but  Walter  can  imagine/' 
said  Faith.  "Mrs.  Elliott  says  he  gets  it  from  his 
mother." 

"I  do  wish  we  hadn't  made  that  mistake  about  Sun- 
day," sighed  Una. 

"Don't  worry  over  that.  I've  thought  of  a  great 
plan  to  explain  so  that  everybody  will  know,"  said 
Faith.  "Just  wait  till  to-morrow  night" 


CHAPTER  XII 
AN  "EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE 

THE  Rev.  Dr.  Cooper  preached  in  Glen  St.  Mary 
the  next  evening  and  the  Presbyterian  Church 
was  crowded  with  people  from  near  and  far.  The 
Reverend  Doctor  was  reputed  to  be  a  very  eloquent 
speaker;  and,  bearing  in  mind  the  old  dictum  that  a 
minister  should  take  his  best  clothes  to  the  city  and 
his  best  sermons  to  the  country,  he  delivered  a  very 
scholarly  and  impressive  discourse.  But  when  the 
folks  went  home  that  night  it  was  not  of  Dr.  Cooper's 
sermon  they  talked.  They  had  completely  forgotten 
all  about  it. 

Dr.  Cooper  had  concluded  with  a  fervent  appeal,  had 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  massive  brow,  had 
said  "Let  us  pray"  as  he  was  famed  for  saying  it,  and 
had  duly  prayed.  There  was  a  slight  pause.  In  Glen 
St.  Mary  Church  the  old  fashion  of  taking  the  collec- 
tion after  the  sermon  instead  of  before  still  held — 
mainly  because  the  Methodists  had  adopted  the  new 
fashion  first,  and  Miss  Cornelia  and  Elder  Clow  would 
not  hear  of  following  where  Methodists  had  led. 
Charles  Baxter  and  Thomas  Douglas,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  pass  the  plates,  were  on  the  point  of  rising  to 
their  feet.  The  organist  had  got  out  the  music  of  her 

anthem  and  the  choir  had  cleared  its  throat    Suddenly 

118 


AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE     119 

Faith  Meredith  rose  in  the  manse  pew,  walked  up  to 
the  pulpit  platform,  and  faced  the  amazed  audience. 

Miss  Cornelia  half  rose  in  her  seat  and  then  sat 
down  again.  Her  pew  was  far  back  and  it  occurred 
to  her  that  whatever  Faith  meant  to  do  or  say  would 
be  half  done  or  said  before  she  could  reach  her.  There 
was  no  use  making  the  exhibition  worse  than  it  had 
to  be.  With  an  anguished  glance  at  Mrs.  Dr.  Blythe, 
and  another  at  Deacon  Warren  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  Miss  Cornelia  resigned  herself  to  another 
scandal. 

"If  the  child  was  only  dressed  decently  itself,"  she 
groaned  in  spirit. 

Faith,  having  spilled  ink  on  her  good  dress,  had 
serenely  put  on  an  old  one  of  faded  pink  print.  A 
caticornered  rent  in  the  skirt  had  been  darned  with 
scarlet  tracing  cotton  and  the  hem  had  been  let  down, 
showing  a  bright  strip  of  un faded  pink  around  the 
skirt.  But  Faith  was  not  thinking  of  her  clothes  at 
all.  She  was  feeling  suddenly  nervous.  What  had 
seemed  easy  in  imagination  was  rather  hard  in  reality. 
Confronted  by  all  those  staring  questioning  eyes 
Faith's  courage  almost  failed  her.  The  lights  were 
so  bright,  the  silence  so  awesome.  She  thought  she 
could  not  speak  after  all.  But  she  must — her  father 
must  be  cleared  of  suspicion.  Only — the  words  would 
not  come. 

Una's  little  pearl-pure  face  gleamed  up  at  her  be- 
seechingly from  the  manse  pew.  The  Blythe  children 


120  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

were  lost  in  amazement.  Back  under  the  gallery  Faith 
saw  the  sweet  graciousness  of  Miss  Rosemary  West's 
smile  and  the  amusement  of  Miss  Ellen's.  But  none 
of  these  helped  her.  It  was  Bertie  Shakespeare  Drew 
who  saved  the  situation.  Bertie  Shakespeare  sat  in 
the  front  seat  of  the  gallery  and  he  made  a  derisive 
face  at  Faith.  Faith  promptly  made  a  dreadful  one 
back  at  him,  and,  in  her  anger  over  being  grimaced  at 
by  Bertie  Shakespeare,  forgot  her  stage  fright.  She 
found  her  voice  and  spoke  out  clearly  and  bravely. 

"I  want  to  explain  something,"  she  said,  "and  I 
want  to  do  it  now  because  everybody  will  hear  it  that 
heard  the  other.  People  are  saying  that  Una  and  I 
stayed  home  last  Sunday  and  cleaned  house  instead  of 
going  to  Sunday  School.  Well,  we  did — but  we  didn't 
mean  to.  We  had  got  mixed  up  in  the  days  of  the 
week.  It  was  all  Elder  Baxter's  fault" — sensation  in 
the  Baxter  pew — "because  he  went  and  changed  the 
prayer  meeting  to  Wednesday  night  and  then  we 
thought  Thursday  was  Friday  and  so  on  till  we  thought 
Saturday  was  Sunday.  Carl  was  laid  up  sick  and  so 
was  Aunt  Martha,  so  they  couldn't  put  us  right.  We 
went  to  Sunday  School  in  all  that  rain  on  Saturday 
and  nobody  came.  And  then  we  thought  we'd  clean 
house  on  Monday  and  stop  old  cats  from  talking  about 
how  dirty  the  manse  was" — general  sensation  all  over 
church — "and  we  did.  I  shook  the  rugs  in  the  Meth- 
odist graveyard  because  it  was  such  a  convenient 
place  and  not  because  I  meant  to  be  disrespectful  to  the 


AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE     121 

dead.  It  isn't  the-  dead  folks  who  have  made  the  fuss 
over  this — it's  the  living  folks.  And  it  isn't  right  for 
any  of  you  to  blame  my  father  for  this,  because  he 
was  away  and  didn't  know,  and  anyhow  we  thought 
it  was  Monday.  He's  just  the  best  father  that  ever 
lived  in  the  world  and  we  love  him  with  all  our  hearts." 

Faith's  bravado  ebbed  out  in  a  sob.  She  ran  down 
the  steps  and  flashed  out  of  the  side  door  of  the  church. 
There  the  friendly  starlit,  summer  night  comforted 
her  and  the  ache  went  out  of  her  eyes  and  throat.  She 
felt  very  happy.  The  dreadful  explanation  was  over 
and  everybody  knew  now  that  her  father  wasn't  to 
blame  and  that  she  and  Una  were  not  so  wicked  as  to 
have  cleaned  house  knowingly  on  Sunday. 

Inside  the  church  people  gazed  blankly  at  each  other, 
but  Thomas  Douglas  rose  and  walked  up  the  aisle 
with  a  set  face.  His  duty  was  clear;  the  collection 
must  be  taken  if  the  skies  fell.  Taken  it  was ;  the  choir 
sang  the  anthem,  with  a  dismal  conviction  that  it  fell 
terribly  flat,  and  Dr.  Cooper  gave  out  the  concluding 
hymn  and  pronounced  the  benediction  with  consider- 
ably less  unction  than  usual.  The  Reverend  Doctor 
had  a  sense  of  humor  and  Faith's  performance  tickled 
him.  Besides,  John  Meredith  was  well  known  in 
Presbyterian  circles. 

Mr.  Meredith  returned  home  the  next  afternoon, 
but  before  his  coming  Faith  contrived  to  scandalize 
Glen  St.  Mary  again.  In  the  reaction  from  Sunday 
evening's  intensity  and  strain  she  was  especially  full 


122  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

of  what  Miss  Cornelia  would  have  called  "devilment" 
on  Monday.  This  led  her  to  dare  Walter  Blythe  to 
ride  through  Main  Street  on  a  pig,  while  she  rode 
another  one. 

The  pigs  in  question  were  two  tall,  lank  animals, 
supposed  to  belong  to  Bertie  Shakespeare  Drew's 
father,  which  had  been  haunting  the  roadside  by  the 
manse  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  Walter  did  not  want  to 
ride  a  pig  through  Glen  St.  Mary,  but  whatever  Faith 
Meredith  dared  him  to  do  must  be  done.  They  tore 
down  the  hill  and  through  the  village,  Faith  bent 
double  with  laughter  over  her  terrified  courser,  Walter 
crimson  with  shame.  They  tore  past  the  minister  him- 
self, just  coming  home  from  the  station;  he,  being  a 
little  less  dreamy  and  abstracted  than  usual — owing 
to  having  had  a  talk  on  the  train  with  Miss  Cornelia 
who  always  wakened  him  up  temporarily — noticed 
them,  and  thought  he  really  must  speak  to  Faith  about 
it  and  tell  her  that  such  conduct  was  not  seemly.  But 
he  had  forgotten  the  trifling  incident  by  the  time  he 
reached  home.  They  passed  Mrs.  Alec  Davis,  who 
shrieked  in  horror,  and  they  passed  Miss  Rosemary 
West  who  laughed  and  sighed.  Finally,  just  before 
the  pigs  swooped  into  Bertie  Shakespeare  Drew's  back 
yard,  never  to  emerge  therefrom  again,  so  great  had 
been  the  shock  to  their  nerves — Faith  and  Walter 
jumped  off,  as  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blythe  drove  swiftly  by. 

"So  that  is  how  you  bring  up  your  boys,"  said  Gil- 
bert with  mock  severity. 


AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE     123 

"Perhaps  I  do  spoil  them  a  little,"  said  Anne  con- 
tritely, "but,  oh,  Gilbert,  when  I  think  of  ray  own 
childhood  before  I  came  to  Green  Gables  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  be  very  strict.  How  hungry  for  love  and  fun 
I  was — an  unloved  little  drudge  with  never  a  chance 
to  play !  They  do  have  such  good  times  with  the  manse 
children." 

"What  about  the  poor  pigs?"  asked  Gilbert. 

Anne  tried  to  look  sober  and  failed. 

"Do  you  really  think  it  hurt  them?"  she  said.  "I 
don't  think  anything  could  hurt  those  animals.  They've 
been  the  plague  of  the  neighbourhood  this  summer  and 
the  Drews  won't  shut  them  up.  But  I'll  talk  to  Walter 
— if  I  can  keep  from  laughing  when  I  do  it." 

Miss  Cornelia  came  up  to  Ingleside  that  evening  to 
relieve  her  feelings  over  Sunday  night.  To  her  sur- 
prise she  found  that  Anne  did  not  view  Faith's  per- 
formance in  quite  the  same  light  as  she  did. 

"I  thought  there  was  something  brave  and  pathetic 
in  her  getting  up  there  before  that  churchful  of  people, 
to  confess,"  she  said.  "You  could  see  she  was  fright- 
ened to  death — yet  she  was  bound  to  clear  her  father. 
I  loved  her  for  it." 

"Oh,  of  course,  the  poor  child  meant  well,"  sighed 
Miss  Cornelia,  "but  just  the  same  it  was  a  terrible 
thing  to  do,  and  is  making  more  talk  than  the  house- 
cleaning  on  Sunday.  That  had  begun  to  die  away,  and 
this  has  started  it  all  up  again.  Rosemary  West  is  like 
you — she  said  last  night  as  she  left  the  church  that  it 


124  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

was  a  plucky  thing  for  Faith  to  do,  but  it  made  her  feel 
sorry  for  the  child,  too.  Miss  Ellen  thought  it  all  a 
good  joke,  and  said  she  hadn't  had  as  much  fun  in 
church  for  years.  Of  course  they  don't  care — they 
are  Episcopalians.  But  we  Presbyterians  feel  it.  And 
there  were  so  many  hotel  people  there  that  night  and 
scores  of  Methodists.  Mrs.  Leander  Crawford  cried, 
she  felt  so  bad.  And  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  said  the  little 
hussy  ought  to  be  well  spanked." 

"Mrs.  Leander  Crawford  is  always  crying  in 
church,"  said  Susan  contemptuously.  "She  cries  over 
every  affecting  thing  the  minister  says.  But  you  do 
not  often  see  her  name  on  a  subscription  list,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear.  Tears  come  cheaper.  She  tried  to  talk  to  me 
one  day  about  Aunt  Martha  being  such  a  dirty  house- 
keeper; and  I  wanted  to  say,  'Every  one  knows  that 
you  have  been  seen  mixing  up  cakes  in  the  kitchen 
wash-pan,  Mrs.  Leander  Crawford!'  But  I  did  not 
say  it,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  because  I  have  too  much  respect 
for  myself  to  condescend  to  argue  with  the  likes  of  her. 
But  I  could  tell  worse  things  than  that  of  Mrs.  Leander 
Crawford,  if  I  was  disposed  to  gossip.  And  as  for 
Mrs.  Alec  Davis,  if  she  had  said  that  to  me,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear,  do  you  know  what  I  would  have  said?  I 
would  have  said,  'I  have  no  doubt  you  would  like  to 
spank  Faith,  Mrs.  Davis,  but  you  will  never  have  the 
chance  to  spank  a  minister's  daughter  either  in  this 
world  or  in  that  which  is  to  come.' ' 

"If  poor  Faith  had  only  been  decently  dressed," 


AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE     125 

lamented  Miss  Cornelia  again,  "it  wouldn't  have  been 
quite  so  bad.  But  that  dress  looked  dreadful,  as  she 
stood  there  upon  the  platform." 

"It  was  clean,  though,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan. 
"They  are  clean  children.  They  may  be  very  heedless 
and  reckless,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  I  am  not  saying  they 
are  not,  but  they  never  forget  to  wash  behind  their 
ears." 

"The  idea  of  Faith  forgetting  what  day  was  Sun- 
day," persisted  Miss  Cornelia.  "She  will  grow  up 
just  as  careless  and  impractical  as  her  father,  believe 
me.  I  suppose  Carl  would  have  known  better  if  he 
hadn't  been  sick.  I  don't  know  what  was  wrong  with 
him,  but  I  think  it  very  likely  he  had  been  eating  those 
blueberries  that  grew  in  the  graveyard.  No  wonder 
they  made  him  sick.  If  I  was  a  Methodist  I'd  try  to 
keep  my  graveyard  cleaned  up  at  least." 

"I  am  of  the  opinion  that  Carl  only  ate  the  sours 
that  grow  on  the  dyke,"  said  Susan  hopefully.  "I 
do  not  think  any  minister's  son  would  eat  blueberries 
that  grew  on  the  graves  of  dead  people.  You  know  it 
would  not  be  so  bad,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  to  eat  things  that 
grew  on  the  dyke." 

"The  worst  of  last  night's  performance  was  the  face 
Faith  made  at  somebody  in  the  congregation  before 
she  started  in,"  said  Miss  Cornelia.  "Elder  Clow  de- 
clares she  made  it  at  him.  And  did  you  hear  that  she 
was  seen  riding  on  a  pig  to-day  ?" 

"I  saw  her.     Walter  was  with  her.     I  gave  him  a 


126  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

little — a  very  little — scolding  about  it.  He  did  not  say 
much,  but  he  gave  me  the  impression  that  it  had  been 
his  idea  and  that  Faith  was  not  to  blame." 

"I  do  not  believe  that,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  cried  Susan, 
up  in  arms.  "That  is  just  Walter's  way — to  take  the 
blame  on  himself.  But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear,  that  that  blessed  child  would  never  have 
thought  of  riding  on  a  pig,  even  if  he  does  write 
poetry." 

"Oh,  there's  no  doubt  the  notion  was  hatched  in 
Faith  Meredith's  brain,"  said  Miss  Cornelia.  "And  I 
don't  say  that  I'm  sorry  that  Amos  Drew's  old  pigs 
did  get  their  come-uppance  for  once.  But  the  minis- 
ter's daughter !" 

"And  the  doctor's  son !"  said  Anne,  mimicking  Miss 
Cornelia's  tone.  Then  she  laughed.  "Dear  Miss  Cor- 
nelia, they're  only  little  children.  And  you  know 
they've  never  yet  done  anything  bad — they're  just 
heedless  and  impulsive — as  I  was  myself  once.  They'll 
grow  sedate  and  sober — as  I've  done." 

Miss  Cornelia  laughed,  too. 

"There  are  times,  Anne  dearie,  when  I  know  by 
your  eyes  that  your  soberness  is  put  on  like  a  garment 
and  you're  really  aching  to  do  something  wild  and 
young  again.  Well,  I  feel  encouraged.  Somehow,  a 
talk  with  you  always  does  have  that  effect  on  me. 
Now,  when  I  go  to  see  Barbara  Samson,  it's  just  the 
opposite.  She  makes  me  feel  that  everything's  wrong 
and  always  will  be.  But  of  course  living  all  your  life 


AN  EXPLANATION  AND  A  DARE    127 

with  a  man  like  Joe  Samson  wouldn't  be  exactly  cheer- 
ing." 

"It  is  a  very  strange  thing  to  think  that  she  married 
Joe  Samson  after  all  her  chances,"  remarked  Susan. 
"She  was  much  sought  after  when  she  was  a  girl.  She 
used  to  boast  to  me  that  she  had  twenty-one  beaus  and 
Mr.  Pethick." 

"What  was  Mr.  Pethick  ?" 

"Well,  he  was  a  sort  of  hanger-on,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear, 
but  you  could  not  exactly  call  him  a  beau.  He  did  not 
really  have  any  intentions.  Twenty-one  beaus — and 
me  that  never  had  one!  But  Barbara  went  through 
the  woods  and  picked  up  the  crooked  stick  after  all. 
And  yet  they  say  her  husband  can  make  better  baking 
powder  biscuits  than  she  can,  and  she  always  gets  him 
to  make  them  when  company  comes  to  tea." 

"Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  company  coming 
to  tea  to-morrow  and  I  must  go  home  and  set  my 
bread,"  said  Miss  Cornelia.  "Mary  said  she  could 
set  it  and  no  doubt  she  could.  But  while  I  live  and 
move  and  have  my  being  /  set  my  own  bread,  believe 
me." 

"How  is  Mary  getting  on  ?"  asked  Anne. 

"I've  no  fault  to  find  with  Mary,"  said  Miss  Cor- 
nelia rather  gloomily.  "She's  getting  some  flesh  on 
her  bones  and  she's  clean  and  respectful — though 
there's  more  in  her  than  /  can  fathom.  She's  a  sly 
puss.  If  you  dug  for  a  thousand  years  you  couldn't 
get  to  the  bottom  of  that  child's  mind,  believe  me!  As 


128  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

for  work,  I  never  saw  anything  like  her.  She  eats  it 
up.  Mrs.  Wiley  may  have  been  cruel  to  her,  but  folks 
needn't  say  she  made  Mary  work.  Mary's  a  born 
worker.  Sometimes  I  wonder  which  will  wear  out 
first — her  legs  or  her  tongue.  I  don't  have  enough  to 
do  to  keep  me  out  of  mischief  these  days.  I'll  be  real 
glad  when  school  opens,  for  then  I'll  have  something 
to  do  again.  Mary  doesn't  want  to  go  to  school,  but 
I  put  my  foot  down  and  said  that  go  she  must.  I  shall 
not  have  the  Methodists  saying  that  I  kept  her  out  of 
school  while  I  lolled  in  idleness." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

THERE  was  a  little  unfailing  spring,  always  icy 
cold  and  crystal  pure  in  a  certain  birch-screened 
hollow  of  Rainbow  Valley  in  the  lower  corner  near 
the  marsh.  Not  a  great  many  people  knew  of  its 
existence.  The  manse  and  Ingleside  children  knew,  of 
course,  as  they  knew  everything  else  about  the  magic 
valley.  Occasionally  they  went  there  to  get  a  drink, 
and  it  figured  in  many  of  their  plays  as  a  fountain  of 
old  romance.  Anne  knew  of  it  and  loved  it  because 
it  somehow  reminded  her  of  the  beloved  Dryad's 
Bubble  at  Green  Gables.  Rosemary  West  knew  of  it; 
it  was  her  fountain  of  romance,  too.  Eighteen  years 
ago  she  had  sat  beside  it  one  spring  twilight  and  heard 
young  Martin  Crawford  stammer  out  a  confession  of 
fervent,  boyish  love.  She  had  whispered  her  own 
secret  in  return,  and  they  had  kissed  and  promised  by 
the  wild  wood  spring.  They  had  never  stood  together 
by  it  again — Martin  had  sailed  on  his  fatal  voyage 
soon  after;  but  to  Rosemary  West  it  was  always  a 
sacred  spot,  hallowed  by  that  immortal  hour  of  youth 
and  love.  Whenever  she  passed  near  it  she  turned 
aside  to  hold  a  secret  tryst  with  an  old  dream — a  dream 
from  which  the  pain  had  long  gone,  leaving  only  its 
unforgettable  sweetness. 

129 


130  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

The  spring  was  a  hidden  thing.  You  might  have 
passed  within  ten  feet  of  it  and  never  have  suspected 
its  existence.  Two  generations  past  a  huge  old  pine 
had  fallen  almost  across  it.  Nothing  was  left  of  the 
tree  but  its  crumbling  trunk  out  of  which  the  ferns 
grew  thickly,  making  a  green  roof  and  a  lacy  screen 
for  the  water.  A  maple  tree  grew  beside  it  with  a 
curiously  gnarled  and  twisted  trunk,  creeping  along 
the  ground  for  a  little  way  before  shooting  up  into 
the  air,  and  so  forming  a  quaint  seat;  and  September 
had  flung  a  scarf  of  pale  smoke-blue  asters  around  the 
hollow. 

John  Meredith,  taking  the  cross-lots  road  through 
Rainbow  Valley  on  his  way  home  from  some  pastoral 
visitations  around  the  Harbour  head  one  evening, 
turned  aside  to  drink  of  the  little  spring.  Walter 
Blythe  had  shown  it  to  him  one  afternoon  only  a  few 
days  before,  and  they  had  had  a  long  talk  together  on 
the  maple  seat.  John  Meredith,  under  all  his  shyness 
and  aloofness,  had  the  heart  of  a  boy.  He  had  been 
called  Jack  in  his  youth,  though  nobody  in  Glen  St. 
Mary  would  ever  have  believed  it.  Walter  and  he 
had  taken  to  each  other  and  had  talked  unreservedly. 
Mr.  Meredith  found  his  way  into  some  sealed  and 
sacred  chambers  of  the  lad's  soul  wherein  not  even  Di 
had  ever  looked.  They  were  to  be  chums  from  that 
friendly  hour  and  Walter  knew  that  he  would  never 
be  frightened  of  the  minister  again. 

"I  never  believed  before  that  it  was  possible  to  get 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL        131 

really  acquainted  with  a  minister,"  he  told  his  mother 
that  night. 

John  Meredith  drank  from  his  slender  white  hand, 
whose  grip  of  steel  always  surprised  people  who  were 
unacquainted  with  it,  and  then  sat  down  on  the  maple 
seat.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  home;  this  was  a 
beautiful  spot  and  he  was  mentally  weary  after  a 
round  of  rather  uninspiring  conversations  with  many 
good  and  stupid  people.  The  moon  was  rising.  Rain- 
bow Valley  was  wind-haunted  and  star-sentinelled 
only  where  he  was,  but  afar  from  the  upper  end  came 
the  gay  notes  of  children's  laughter  and  voices. 

The  ethereal  beauty  of  the  asters  in  the  moonlight, 
the  glimmer  of  the  little  spring,  the  soft  croon  of  the 
brook,  the  wavering  grace  of  the  brackens  all  wove  a 
white  magic  round  John  Meredith.  He  forgot  con- 
gregational worries  and  spiritual  problems;  the  years 
slipped  away  from  him;  he  was  a  young  divinity  stu- 
dent again  and  the  roses  of  June  were  blooming  red 
and  fragrant  on  the  dark,  queenly  head  of  his  Cecilia. 
He  sat  there  and  dreamed  like  any  boy.  And  it  was 
at  this  propitious  moment  that  Rosemary  West  stepped 
aside  from  the  by-path  and  stood  beside  him  in  that 
dangerous,  spell-weaving  place.  John  Meredith  stood 
up  as  she  came  in  and  saw  her — really  saw  her — for 
the  first  time. 

He  had  met  her  in  his  church  once  or  twice  and 
shaken  hands  with  her  abstractedly  as  he  did  with 
any  one  he  happened  to  encounter  on  his  way  down 


132  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  aisle.  He  had  never  met  her  elsewhere,  for  the 
Wests  were  Episcopalians,  with  church  affinities  in 
Lowbridge,  and  no  occasion  for  calling  upon  them  had 
ever  arisen.  Before  to-night,  if  any  one  had  asked 
John  Meredith  what  Rosemary  West  looked  like  he 
would  not  have  had  the  slightest  notion.  But  he  was 
never  to  forget  her,  as  she  appeared  to  him  in  the 
glamour  of  kind  moonlight  by  the  spring. 

She  was  certainly  not  in  the  least  like  Cecilia,  who 
had  always  been  his  ideal  of  womanly  beauty.  Cecilia 
had  been  small  and  dark  and  vivacious — Rosemary 
West  was  tall  and  fair  and  placid,  yet  John  Meredith 
thought  he  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  woman. 

She  was  bareheaded  and  her  golden  hair — hair  of  a 
warm  gold,  "molasses  taffy"  colour  as  Di  Blythe  had 
said — was  pinned  in  sleek,  close  coils  over  her  head; 
she  had  large,  tranquil,  blue  eyes  that  always  seemed 
full  of  friendliness,  a  high  white  forehead  and  a  finely 
shaped  face. 

Rosemary  West  was  always  called  a  "sweet  woman." 
She  was  so  sweet  that  even  her  high-bred,  stately  air 
had  never  gained  for  her  the  reputation  of  being 
"stuck-up,"  which  it  would  inevitably  have  done  in 
the  case  of  any  one  else  in  Glen  St.  Mary.  Life  had 
taught  her  to  be  brave,  to  be  patient,  to  love,  to  forgive. 
She  had  watched  the  ship  on  which  her  lover  went 
sailing  out  of  Four  Winds  Harbour  into  the  sunset. 
But,  though  she  watched  long,  she  had  never  seen  it 
coming  sailing  back.  That  vigil  had  taken  girlhood 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL        133 

from  her  eyes,  yet  she  kept  her  youth  to  a  marvellous 
degree.  Perhaps  this  was  because  she  always  seemed 
to  preserve  that  attitude  of  delighted  surprise  towards 
life  which  most  of  us  leave  behind  in  childhood — an 
attitude  which  not  only  made  Rosemary  herself  seem 
young,  but  flung  a  pleasing  illusion  of  youth  over  the 
consciousness  of  every  one  who  talked  to  her. 

John  Meredith  was  startled  by  her  loveliness  and 
Rosemary  was  startled  by  his  presence.  She  had  never 
thought  she  would  find  any  one  by  that  remote  spring, 
least  of  all  the  recluse  of  Glen  St.  Mary  manse.  She 
almost  dropped  the  heavy  armful  of  books  she  was 
carrying  home  from  the  Glen  lending  library,  and  then, 
to  cover  her  confusion,  she  told  one  of  those  small 
fibs  which  even  the  best  of  women  do  tell  at  times. 

"I — I  came  for  a  drink,"  she  said,  stammering  a 
little,  in  answer  to  Mr.  Meredith's  grave  "good-eve- 
ning, Miss  West."  She  felt  that  she  was  an  unpardon- 
able goose  and  she  longed  to  shake  herself.  But  John 
Meredith  was  not  a  vain  man  and  he  knew  she  would 
likely  have  been  as  much  startled  had  she  met  old  Elder 
Clow  in  that  unexpected  fashion.  Her  confusion  put 
him  at  ease  and  he  forgot  to  be  shy;  besides,  even  the 
shyest  of  men  can  sometimes  be  quite  audacious  in 
moonlight. 

"Let  me  get  you  a  cup,"  he  said  smiling.  There  was 
a  cup  nearby,  if  he  had  only  known  it,  a  cracked, 
handleless  blue  cup  secreted  under  the  maple  by  the 
Rainbow  Valley  children;  but  he  did  not  know  it,  so 


134  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

he  stepped  out  to  one  of  the  birch  trees  and  stripped  a 
bit  of  its  white  skin  away.  Deftly  he  fashioned  this 
into  a  three-cornered  cup,  filled  it  from  the  spring,  and 
handed  it  to  Rosemary. 

Rosemary  took  it  and  drank  every  drop  to  punish 
herself  for  her  fib,  for  she  was  not  in  the  least  thirsty, 
and  to  drink  a  fairly  large  cupful  of  water  when  you 
are  not  thirsty  is  something  of  an  ordeal.  Yet  the 
memory  of  that  draught  was  to  be  very  pleasant  to 
Rosemary.  In  after  years  it  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  something  sacramental  about  it.  Perhaps  this  was 
because  of  what  the  minister  did  when  she  handed  him 
back  the  cup.  He  stooped  again  and  filled  it  and  drank 
of  it  himself.  It  was  only  by  accident  that  he  put  his 
lips  just  where  Rosemary  had  put  hers,  and  Rosemary 
knew  it.  Nevertheless,  it  had  a  curious  significance 
for  her.  They  two  had  drunk  of  the  same  cup.  She 
remembered  idly  that  an  old  aunt  of  hers  used  to  say 
that  when  two  people  did  this  their  after-lives  would 
be  linked  in  some  fashion,  whether  for  good  or  ill. 

John  Meredith  held  the  cup  uncertainly.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  The  logical  thing  would 
have  been  to  toss  it  away,  but  somehow  he  was  dis- 
inclined to  do  this.  Rosemary  held  out  her  hand  for  it. 

"Will  you  let  me  have  it  ?"  she  said.  "You  made  it 
so  knackily.  I  never  saw  any  one  make  a  birch  cup 
so  since  my  little  brother  used  to  make  them  long  ago 
— before  he  died." 

"I  learned  how  to  make  them  when  /  was  a  boy, 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL         135 

camping  out  one  summer.  An  old  hunter  taught  me," 
said  Mr.  Meredith.  "Let  me  carry  your  books,  Miss 
West." 

Rosemary  was  startled  into  another  fib  and  said  oh, 
they  were  not  heavy.  But  the  minister  took  them  from 
her  with  quite  a  masterful  air  and  they  walked  away 
together.  It  was  the  first  time  Rosemary  had  stood 
by  the  valley  spring  without  thinking  of  Martin  Craw- 
ford. The  mystic  tryst  had  been  broken. 

The  little  by-path  wound  around  the  marsh  and  then 
struck  up  the  long  wooded  hill  on  the  top  of  which 
Rosemary  lived.  Beyond,  through  the  trees,  they  could 
see  the  moonlight  shining  across  the  level  summer 
fields.  But  the  little  path  was  shadowy  and  narrow. 
Trees  crowded  over  it,  and  trees  are  never  quite  as 
friendly  to  human  beings  after  nightfall  as  they  are 
in  daylight.  They  wrap  themselves  away  from  us. 
They  whisper  and  plot  furtively.  If  they  reach  out 
a  hand  to  us  it  has  a  hostile,  tentative  touch.  People 
walking  amid  trees  after  night  always  draw  closer 
together  instinctively  and  involuntarily,  making  an 
alliance,  physical  and  mental,  against  certain  alien 
powers  around  them.  Rosemary's  dress  brushed 
against  John  Meredith  as  they  walked.  Not  even  an 
absent  minded  minister,  who  was  after  all  a  young 
man  still,  though  he  firmly  believed  he  had  outlived 
romance,  could  be  insensible  to  the  charm  of  the  night 
and  the  path  and  the  companion. 

It  is  never  quite  safe  to  think  we  have  done  with 


136  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

life.  When  we  imagine  we  have  finished  our  story 
fate  has  a  trick  of  turning  the  page  and  showing  us. 
yet  another  chapter.  These  two  people  each  thought 
their  hearts  belonged  irrevocably  to  the  past;  but  they 
both  found  their  walk  up  that  hill  very  pleasant.  Rose- 
mary thought  the  Glen  minister  was  by  no  means  as 
shy  and  tongue-tied  as  he  had  been  represented.  He 
seemed  to  find  no  difficulty  in  talking  easily  and  freely. 
Glen  housewives  would  have  been  amazed  had  they 
heard  him.  But  then  so  many  Glen  housewives  talked 
only  of  gossip  and  the  price  of  eggs,  and  John  Mere- 
dith was  not  interested  in  either.  He  talked  to  Rose- 
mary of  books  and  music  and  wide-world  doings  and 
something  of  his  own  history,  and  found  that  she 
could  understand  and  respond.  Rosemary,  it  ap- 
peared, possessed  a  book  which  Mr.  Meredith  had 
not  read  and  wished  to  read.  She  offered  to  lend  it 
to  him  and  when  they  reached  the  old  homestead  on 
the  hill  he  went  in  to  get  it. 

The  house  itself  was  an  old-fashioned  gray  one, 
hung  with  vines,  through  which  the  light  in  the  sitting 
room  winked  in  friendly  fashion.  It  looked  down  the. 
Glen,  over  the  harbour,  silvered  in  the  moonlight,  to 
the  sand-dunes  and  the  moaning  ocean.  They  walked 
in  through  a  garden  that  always  seemed  to  smell  of 
roses,  even  when  no  roses  were  in  bloom.  There  was 
a  sisterhood  of  lilies  at  the  gate  and  a  ribbon  of  asters, 
on  either  side  of  the  broad  walk,  and  a  lacery  of  fir 
trees  on  the  hill's  edge  beyond  the  house. 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL        137 

"You  have  the  whole  world  at  your  doorstep  here," 
said  John  Meredith,  with  a  long  breath.  "What  a  view 
— what  an  outlook !  At  times  I  feel  stifled  down  there 
in  the  Glen.  You  can  breathe  up  here." 

"It  is  calm  to-night,"  said  Rosemary  laughing.  "If 
there  were  a  wind  it  would  blow  your  breath  away. 
We  get  V  the  airts  the  wind  can  blow'  up  here.  This 
place  should  be  called  Four  Winds  instead  of  the  Har- 
bour." 

"I  like  wind,"  he  said.  "A  day  when  there  is  no 
wind  seems  to  me  dead.  A  windy  day  wakes  me  up." 
He  gave  a  conscious  laugh.  "On  a  calm  day  I  fall 
into  day  dreams.  No  doubt  you  know  my  reputation, 
Miss  West.  If  I  cut  you  dead  the  next  time  we  meet 
don't  put  it  down  to  bad  manners.  Please  understand 
that  it  is  only  abstraction  and  forgive  me — and  speak 
to  me." 

They  found  Ellen  West  in  the  sitting  room  when 
they  went  in.  She  laid  her  glasses  down  on  the  book 
she  had  been  reading  and  looked  at  them  in  an  amaze- 
ment tinctured  with  something  else.  But  she  shook 
hands  amiably  with  Mr.  Meredith  and  he  sat  down  and 
talked  to  her,  while  Rosemary  hunted  out  his  book. 

Ellen  West  was  ten  years  older  than  Rosemary,  and 
so  different  from  her  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  they 
were  sisters.  She  was  dark  and  massive,  with  black 
hair,  thick,  black  eyebrows  and  eyes  of  the  clear,  slaty 
blue  of  the  gulf  water  in  a  north  wind.  She  had  a 
rather  stern,  forbidding  look,  but  she  was  in  reality 


138  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

very  jolly,  with  a  hearty,  gurgling  laugh  and  a  deep, 
mellow,  pleasant  voice  with  a  suggestion  of  masculinity 
about  it.  She  had  once  remarked  to  Rosemary  that 
she  would  really  like  to  have  a  talk  with  that  Presby- 
terian minister  at  the  Glen,  to  see  if  he  could  find  a 
word  to  say  to  a  woman  when  he  was  cornered.  She 
had  her  chance  now  and  she  tackled  him  on  world 
politics.  Miss  Ellen,  who  was  a  great  reader,  had 
been  devouring  a  book  on  the  Kaiser  of  Germany,  and 
she  demanded  Mr.  Meredith's  opinion  of  him. 

"A  dangerous  man,"  was  his  answer. 

"I  believe  you!"  Miss  Ellen  nodded.  "Mark  my 
words,  Mr.  Meredith,  that  man  is  going  to  fight  some- 
body yet.  He's  aching  to.  He  is  going  to  set  the  world 
on  fire." 

"If  you  mean  that  he  will  wantonly  precipitate  a 
great  war  I  hardly  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Meredith.  "The 
day  has  gone  by  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Bless  you,  it  hasn't,"  rumbled  Ellen.  "The  day 
never  goes  by  for  men  and  nations  to  make  asses  of 
themselves  and  take  to  the  fists.  The  millennium  isn't 
that  near,  Mr.  Meredith,  and  you  don't  think  it  is  any 
more  than  I  do.  As  for  this  Kaiser,  mark  my  words, 
he  is  going  to  make  a  heap  of  trouble" — and  Miss 
Ellen  prodded  her  book  emphatically  with  her  long 
finger.  "Yes,  if  he  isn't  nipped  in  the  bud  he's  going 
to  make  trouble.  We'll  live  to  see  it — you  and  I  will 
live  to  see  it,  Mr.  Meredith.  And  who  is  going  to  nip 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL        139 

him?  England  should,  but  she  won't.  Who  is  going 
to  nip  him?  Tell  me  that,  Mr.  Meredith." 

Mr.  Meredith  couldn't  tell  her,  but  they  plunged  into 
a  discussion  of  German  militarism  that  lasted  long 
after  Rosemary  had  found  the  book.  Rosemary  said 
nothing,  but  sat  in  a  little  rocker  behind  Ellen  and 
stroked  an  important  black  cat  meditatively.  John 
Meredith  hunted  big  game  in  Europe  with  Ellen,  but 
he  looked  of  tener  at  Rosemary  than  at  Ellen,  and  Ellen 
noticed  it.  After  Rosemary  had  gone  to  the  door  with 
him  and  come  back  Ellen  rose  and  looked  at  her  ac- 
cusingly. 

"Rosemary  West,  that  man  has  a  notion  of  courting 
you." 

Rosemary  quivered.  Ellen's  speech  was  like  a  blow 
to  her.  It  rubbed  all  the  bloom  off  the  pleasant  eve- 
ning. But  she  would  not  let  Ellen  see  how  it  hurt  her. 

"Nonsense,"  she  said,  and  laughed,  a  little  too  care- 
lessly. "You  see  a  beau  for  me  in  every  bush,  Ellen. 
Why  he  told  me  all  about  his  wife  to-night — how  much 
she  was  to  him — how  empty  her  death  had  left  the 
world." 

"Well,  that  may  be  his  way  of  courting,"  retorted 
Ellen.  "Men  have  all  kinds  of  ways,  I  understand. 
But  don't  forget  your  promise,  Rosemary." 

"There  is  no  need  of  my  either  forgetting  or  remem- 
bering it,"  said  Rosemary,  a  little  wearily.  "You  for- 
get that  I'm  an  old  maid,  Ellen.  It  is  only  your 


140  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

sisterly  delusion  that  I  am  still  young  and  blooming 
and  dangerous.  Mr.  Meredith  merely  wants  to  be  a 
friend — if  he  wants  that  much  itself.  He'll  forget  us 
both  long  before  he  gets  back  to  the  manse." 

"I've  no  objection  to  your  being  friends  with  him,"' 
conceded  Ellen,  "but  it  mustn't  go  beyond  friendship, 
remember.  I'm  always  suspicious  of  widowers.  They 
are  not  given  to  romantic  ideas  about  friendship. 
They're  apt  to  mean  business.  As  for  this  Presby- 
terian man,  what  do  they  call  him  shy  for?  He's  not 
a  bit  shy,  though  he  may  be  absent-minded — so  absent- 
minded  that  he  forgot  to  say  goodnight  to  me  when 
you  started  to  go  to  the  door  with  him.  He's  got 
brains,  too.  There's  so  few  men  round  here  that  can 
talk  sense  to  a  body.  I've  enjoyed  the  evening.  I 
wouldn't  mind  seeing  more  of  him.  But  no  philander- 
ing, Rosemary,  mind  you — no  philandering." 

Rosemary  was  quite  used  to  being  warned  by  Ellen 
from  philandering  if  she  so  much  as  talked  five  minutes 
to  any  marriageable  man  under  eighty  or  over  eighteen. 
She  had  always  laughed  at  the  warning  with  unfeigned 
amusement.  This  time  it  did  not  amuse  her — it  irri- 
tated her  a  little.  Who  wanted  to  philander  ? 

"Don't  be  such  a  goose,  Ellen,"  she  said  with  unac- 
customed shortness  as  she  took  her  lamp.  She  went 
upstairs  without  saying  goodnight. 

Ellen  shook  her  head  dubiously  and  looked  at  the 
black  cat. 

"What  is  she  so  cross  about,  St.  George?"  she  asked. 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL        141 

'"When  you  howl  you're  hit,  I've  always  heard,  George. 
But  she  promised,  Saint — she  promised,  and  we  Wests 
always  keep  our  word.  So  it  won't  matter  if  he  does 
want  to  philander,  George.  She  promised.  I  won't 
worry." 

Upstairs,  in  her  room,  Rosemary  sat  foj  a  long 
while  looking  out  of  the  window  across  the  moonlit 
garden  to  the  distant,  shining  harbour.  She  felt 
vaguely  upset  and  unsettled.  She  was  suddenly  tired 
of  outworn  dreams.  And  in  the  garden  the  petals  of 
the  last  red  rose  were  scattered  by  a  sudden  little  wind. 
Summer  was  over — it  was  autumn. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
MRS.  ALEC  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL 

JOHN  MEREDITH  walked  slowly  home.  At  first 
he  thought  a  little  about  Rosemary,  but  by  the  time 
he  reached  Rainbow  Valley  he  had  forgotten  all  about 
her  and  was  meditating  on  a  point  regarding  German 
theology  which  Ellen  had  raised.  He  passed  through 
Rainbow  Valley  and  knew  it  not.  The  charm  of  Rain- 
bow Valley  had  no  potency  against  German  theology. 
When  he  reached  the  manse  he  went  to  his  study  and 
took  down  a  bulky  volume  in  order  to  see  which  had 
been  right,  he  or  Ellen.  He  remained  immersed  in  its 
mazes  until  dawn,  struck  a  new  trail  of  speculation  and 
pursued  it  like  a  sleuth  hound  for  the  next  week, 
utterly  lost  to  the  world,  his  parish  and  his  family.  He 
read  day  and  night ;  he  forgot  to  go  to  his  meals  when 
Una  was  not  there  to  drag  him  to  them;  he  never 
thought  about  Rosemary  or  Ellen  again.  Old  Mrs. 
Marshall,  over-harbour,  was  very  ill  and  sent  for  him, 
but  the  message  lay  unheeded  on  his  desk  and  gathered 
dust.  Mrs.  Marshall  recovered  but  never  forgave  him. 
A  young  couple  came  to  the  manse  to  be  married  and 
Mr.  Meredith,  with  unbrushed  hair,  in  carpet  slippers 
and  faded  dressing  gown,  married  them.  To  be  sure, 

he  began  by  reading  the  funeral  service  to  them  and 
-     142 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL        143 

got  along  as  far  as  "ashes  to  ashes  and  dust  to  dust" 
before  he  vaguely  suspected  that  something  was  wrong. 

"Dear  me,"  he  said  absently,  "that  is  strange — very 
strange." 

The  bride,  who  was  very  nervous,  began  to  cry.  The 
bridegroom,  who  was  not  in  the  least  nervous,  giggled. 

"Please,  sir,  I  think  you're  burying  us  instead  of 
marrying  us,"  he  said. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  as  if  it  did  not 
matter  much.  He  turned  up  the  marriage  service  and 
got  through  with  it,  but  the  bride  never  felt  quite 
properly  married  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

He  forgot  his  prayer  meeting  again — but  that  did 
not  matter,  for  it  was  a  wet  night  and  nobody  came. 
He  might  even  have  forgotten  his  Sunday  service  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Mrs.  Alec  Davis.  Aunt  Martha 
came  in  on  Saturday  afternoon  and  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Davis  was  in  the  parlour  and  wanted  to  see  him.  Mr. 
Meredith  sighed.  Mrs.  Davis  was  the  only  woman  in 
Glen  St.  Mary  church  whom  he  positively  detested. 
Unfortunately,  she  was  also  the  richest,  and  his  board 
of  managers  had  warned  Mr.  Meredith  against  offend- 
ing her.  Mr.  Meredith  seldom  thought  of  such  a 
worldly  matter  as  his  stipend;  but  the  managers  were 
more  practical.  Also,  they  were  astute.  Without  men- 
tioning money,  they  contrived  to  instil  into  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's mind  a  conviction  that  he  should  not  offend  Mrs. 
Davis.  Otherwise,  he  would  likely  have  forgotten  all 
about  her  as  soon  as  Aunt  Martha  had  gone  out.  As 


144  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

it  was,  he  turned  down  his  Ewald  with  a  feeling  of 
annoyance  and  went  across  the  hall  to  the  parlour. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  looking  about 
her  with  an  air  of  scornful  disapproval. 

What  a  scandalous  room!  There  were  no  curtains 
on  the  window.  Mrs.  Davis  did  not  know  that  Faith 
and  Una  had  taken  them  down  the  day  before  to  use 
as  court  trains  in  one  of  their  plays  and  had  forgotten 
to  put  them  up  again,  but  she  could  not  have  accused 
those  windows  more  fiercely  if  she  had  known.  The 
blinds  were  cracked  and  torn.  The  pictures  on  the 
walls  were  crooked;  the  rugs  were  awry;  the  vases 
were  full  of  faded  flowers;  the  dust  lay  in  heaps — 
literally  in  heaps. 

"What  are  we  coming  to?"  Mrs.  Davis  asked  her- 
self, and  then  primmed  up  her  unbeautiful  mouth. 

Jerry  and  Carl  had  been  whooping  and  sliding  down 
the  bannisters  as  she  came  through  the  hall.  They 
did  not  see  her  and  continued  whooping  and  sliding, 
and  Mrs.  Davis  was  convinced  they  did  it  on  purpose. 
Faith's  pet  rooster  ambled  through  the  hall,  stood  in 
the  parlour  doorway  and  looked  at  her.  Not  liking  her 
looks,  he  did  not  venture  in.  Mrs.  Davis  gave  a  scorn- 
ful sniff.  A  pretty  manse,  indeed,  where  roosters 
paraded  the  halls  and  stared  people  out  of  countenance. 

"Shoo,  there,"  commanded  Mrs.  Davis,  poking  her 
flounced,  changeable-silk  parasol  at  him. 

Adam  shooed.  He  was  a  wise  rooster  and  Mrs. 
Davis  had  wrung  the  necks  of  so  many  roosters  with 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL        145 

her  own  fair  hands  in  the  course  of  her  fifty  years 
that  an  air  of  the  executioner  seemed  to  hang  around 
her.  Adam  scuttled  through  the  hall  as  the  minister 
came  in. 

Mr.  Meredith  still  wore  slippers  and  dressing  gown, 
and  his  dark  hair  still  fell  in  uncared-for  locks  over 
his  high  brow.  But  he  looked  the  gentleman  he  was; 
and  Mrs.  Alec  Davis,  in  her  silk  dress  and  be-plumed 
bonnet,  and  kid  gloves  and  gold  chain  looked  the  vul- 
gar, coarse-souled  woman  she  was.  Each  felt  the 
antagonism  of  the  other's  personality.  Mr.  Meredith 
shrank,  but  Mrs.  Davis  girded  up  her  loins  for  the 
fray.  She  had  come  to  the  manse  to  propose  a  certain 
thing  to  the  minister  and  she  meant  to  lose  no  time  in 
proposing  it.  She  was  going  to  do  him  a  favour — a 
great  favour — and  the  sooner  he  was  made  aware  of 
it  the  better.  She  had  been  thinking  about  it  all  summer 
and  had  come  to  a  decision  at  last.  This  was  all  that 
mattered,  Mrs.  Davis  thought.  When  she  decided  a 
thing  it  was  decided.  Nobody  else  had  any  say  in  the 
matter.  That  had  always  been  her  attitude.  When  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Alec  Davis  she  had 
married  him  and  that  was  the  end  to  it.  Alec  had  never 
known  how  it  happened,  but  what  odds?  So  in  this 
case — Mrs.  Davis  had  arranged  everything  to  her  own 
satisfaction.  Now  it  only  remained  to  inform  Mr. 
Meredith. 

"Will  you  please  shut  that  door?"  said  Mrs.  Davis, 
unprimming  her  mouth  slightly  to  say  it,  but  speaking 


146  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

with  asperity.     "I  have  something  important  to  say, 
and  I  can't  say  it  with  that  racket  in  the  hall." 

Mr.  Meredith  shut  the  door  meekly.  Then  he  sat 
down  before  Mrs.  Davis.  He  was  not  wholly  aware 
of  her  yet.  His  mind  was  still  wrestling  with  Ewald's 
arguments.  Mrs.  Davis  sensed  this  detachment  and 
it  annoyed  her. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Meredith,"  she  said 
aggressively,  "that  I  have  decided  to  adopt  Una." 

"To — adopt — Una!"  Mr.  Meredith  gazed  at  her 
blankly,  not  understanding  in  the  least. 

"Yes.  I've  been  thinking  it  over  for  some  time.  I 
have  often  thought  of  adopting  a  child,  since  my  hus- 
band's death.  But  it  seemed  so  hard  to  get  a  suitable 
one.  It  is  very  few  children  I  would  want  to  take  into 
my  home.  I  wouldn't  think  of  taking  a  home-child— 
some  outcast  of  the  slums  in  all  probability.  And  there 
is  hardly  ever  any  other  child  to  be  got.  One  of  the 
fishermen  down  at  the  harbour  mouth  died  last  fall 
and  left  six  youngsters.  They  tried  to  get  me  to  take 
one,  but  I  soon  gave  them  to  understand  I  had  no  idea 
of  adopting  trash  like  that.  Their  grandfather  stole 
a  horse.  Besides,  they  were  all  boys  and  I  wanted  a 
girl — a  quiet,  obedient  girl  that  I  could  train  up  to  be 
a  lady.  Una  will  suit  me  exactly.  She  would  be  a 
nice  little  thing  if  she  was  properly  looked  after — so 
different  from  Faith.  I  would  never  dream  of  adopt- 
ing Faith.  But  I'll  take  Una  and  I'll  give  her  a  good 
home,  and  up-bringing,  Mr.  Meredith,  and  if  she  be- 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL        147 

haves  herself  I'll  leave  her  all  my  money  when  I  die. 
Not  one  of  my  own  relatives  shall  have  a  cent  of  it 
in  any  case,  I'm  determined  on  that.  It  was  the  idea 
of  aggravating  them  that  set  me  to  thinking  of  adopt- 
ing a  child  as  much  as  anything  in  the  first  place.  Una 
shall  be  well  dressed  and  educated  and  trained,  Mr. 
Meredith,  and  I  shall  give  her  music  and  painting  les- 
sons and  treat  her  as  if  she  was  my  own." 

Mr.  Meredith  was  wide  enough  awake  by  this  time. 
There  was  a  faint  flush  in  his  pale  cheek  and  a  danger- 
ous light  in  his  fine  dark  eyes.  Was  this  woman, 
whose  vulgarity  and  consciousness  of  money  oozed 
out  of  her  at  every  pore,  actually  asking  him  to  give 
her  Una — his  dear  little  wistful  Una  with  Cecilia's 
own  dark  blue  eyes — the  child  whom  the  dying  mother 
had  clasped  to  her  heart  after  the  other  children  had 
been  led  weeping  from  the  room.  Cecilia  had  clung 
to  her  baby  until  the  gates  of  death  shut  between  them. 
She  had  looked  over  the  little  dark  head  to  her  hus- 
band. 

"Take  good  care  of  her,  John,"  she  had  entreated. 
"She  is  so  small — and  sensitive.  The  others  can  fight 
their  way — but  the  world  will  hurt  her.  Oh,  John,  I 
don't  know  what  you  and  she  are  going  to  do.  You 
both  need  me  so  much.  But  keep  her  close  to  you — 
keep  her  close  to  you." 

These  had  been  almost  her  last  words  except  a  few 
unforgettable  ones  for  him  alone.  And  it  was  this 
child  whom  Mrs.  Davis  had  coolly  announced  her  in- 


148  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

tention  of  taking  from  him.  He  sat  up  straight  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Davis.  In  spite  of  the  worn  dressing 
gown  and  the  frayed  slippers  there  was  something 
about  him  that  made  Mrs.  Davis  feel  a  little  of  the 
old  reverence  for  "the  cloth"  in  which  she  had  been 
brought  up.  After  all,  there  was  a  certain  divinity 
hedging  a  minister,  even  a  poor,  unworldly,  abstracted 
one. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  kind  intentions,  Mrs.  Davis," 
said  Mr.  Meredith  with  a  gentle,  final,  quite  awful 
courtesy,  "but  I  cannot  give  you  my  child." 

Mrs.  Davis  looked  blank.  She  had  never  dreamed 
of  his  refusing. 

"Why,  Mr.  Meredith,"  she  said  in  astonishment. 

"You  must  be  cr you  can't  mean  it.  You  must 

think  it  over — think  of  all  the  advantages  I  can  give 
her." 

"There  is  no  need  to  think  it  over,  Mrs.  Davis.  It 
is  entirely  out  of  the  question.  All  the  worldly  ad- 
vantages it  is  in  your  power  to  bestow  on  her  could 
not  compensate  for  the  loss  of  a  father's  love  and  care. 
I  thank  you  again — but  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

Disappointment  angered  Mrs.  Davis  beyond  the 
power  of  old  habit  to  control.  Her  broad  red  face 
turned  purple  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  only  too  glad  to  let  me  have 
her,"  she  sneered. 

"Why  did  you  think  that?"  asked  Mr.  Meredith 
quietly. 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL        149 

"Because  nobody  ever  supposed  you  cared  anything 
about  any  of  your  children,"  retorted  Mrs.  Davis  con- 
temptuously. "You  neglect  them  scandalously.  It  is 
the  talk  of  the  place.  They  aren't  fed  or  dressed  prop- 
erly, and  they're  not  trained  at  all.  They  have  no  more 
manners  than  a  pack  of  wild  Indians.  You  never 
think  of  doing  your  duty  as  a  father.  You  let  a  stray 
child  come  here  among  them  for  a  fortnight  and  never 
took  any  notice  of  her — a  child  that  swore  like  a 
trooper  I'm  told.  You  wouldn't  have  cared  if  they'd 
caught  small-pox  from  her.  And  Faith  made  an 
exhibition  of  herself  getting  up  in  preaching  and  mak- 
ing that  speech !  And  she  rid  a  pig  down  the  street — 
under  your  very  eyes  I  understand.  The  way  they  act 
is  past  belief  and  you  never  lift  a  finger  to  stop  them 
or  try  to  teach  them  anything.  And  now  when  I  offer 
one  of  them  a  good  home  and  good  prospects  you  re- 
fuse it  and  insult  me.  A  pretty  father  you,  to  talk  of 
loving  and  caring  for  your  children !" 

"That  will  do,  woman!"  said  Mr.  Meredith.  He 
stood  up  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Davis  with  eyes  that  made 
her  quail.  "That  will  do,"  he  repeated.  "I  desire  to 
hear  no  more,  Mrs.  Davis.  You  have  said  too  much. 
It  may  be  that  I  have  been  remiss  in  some  respects  in 
my  duty  as  a  parent,  but  it  is  not  for  you  to  remind 
me  of  it  in  such  terms  as  you  have  used.  Let  us  say 
good  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Davis  did  not  say  anything  half  so  amiable  as 
good  afternoon,  but  she  took  her  departure.  As  she 


150  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

swept  past  the  minister  a  large,  plump  toad,  which  Carl 
had  secreted  under  the  lounge,  hopped  out  almost 
under  her  feet.  Mrs.  Davis  gave  a  shriek  and  in  trying 
to  avoid  treading  on  the  awful  thing,  lost  her  balance 
and  her  parasol.  She  did  not  exactly  fall,  but  she 
staggered  and  reeled  across  the  room  in  a  very  undigni- 
fied fashion  and  brought  up  against  the  door  with  a 
thud  that  jarred  her  from  head  to  foot.  Mr.  Meredith, 
who  had  not  seen  the  toad,  wondered  if  she  had  been 
attacked  with  some  kind  of  apoplectic  or  paralytic 
seizure,  and  ran  in  alarm  to  her  assistance.  But  Mrs. 
Davis,  recovering  her  feet,  waved  him  back  furiously. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  touch  me,"  she  almost  shouted. 
"This  is  some  more  of  your  children's  doings,  I  sup- 
pose. This  is  no  fit  place  for  a  decent  woman.  Give 
me  my  umbrella  and  let  me  go.  I'll  never  darken  the 
doors  of  your  manse  or  your  church  again." 

Mr.  Meredith  picked  up  the  gorgeous  parasol  meekly 
enough  and  gave  it  to  her.  Mrs.  Davis  seized  it  and 
marched  out.  Jerry  and  Carl  had  given  up  bannister 
sliding  and  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  veranda 
with  Faith.  Unfortunately,  all  three  were  singing  at 
the  tops  of  their  healthy  young  voices  "There'll  be  a 
hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night."  Mrs.  Davis  be- 
lieved the  song  was  meant  for  her  and  her  only.  She 
stopped  and  shook  her  parasol  at  them. 

"Your  father  is  a  fool,"  she  said,  "and  you  are  three 
young  varmints  that  ought  to  be  whipped  within  an 
inch  of  your  lives." 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CALL        151 

"He  isn't,"  cried  Faith.  "We're  not,"  cried  the 
boys.  But  Mrs.  Davis  was  gone. 

"Goodness,  isn't  she  mad !"  said  Jerry.  "And  what 
is  a  'varmint'  anyhow  ?" 

John  Meredith  paced  up  and  down  the  parlour  for  a 
few  minutes;  then  he  went  back  to  his  study  and  sat 
down.  But  he  did  not  return  to  his  German  theology. 
He  was  too  grievously  disturbed  for  that.  Mrs.  Davis 
had  wakened  him  up  with  a  vengeance.  Was  he  such 
a  remiss,  careless  father  as  she  had  accused  him  of 
being?  Had  he  so  scandalously  neglected  the  bodily 
and  spiritual  welfare  of  the  four  little  motherless  crea- 
tures dependent  on  him?  Were  his  people  talking  of 
it  as  harshly  as  Mrs.  Davis  had  declared?  It  must  be 
so,  since  Mrs.  Davis  had  come  to  ask  for  Una  in  the 
full  and  confident  belief  that  he  would  hand  the  child 
over  to  her  as  unconcernedly  and  gladly  as  one  might 
hand  over  a  strayed,  unwelcome  kitten.  And,  if  so, 
what  then  ? 

John  Meredith  groaned  and  resumed  his  pacing  up 
and  down  the  dusty,  disordered  room.  What  could 
he  do  ?  He  loved  his  children  as  deeply  as  any  father 
could  and  he  knew,  past  the  power  of  Mrs.  Davis  or 
any  of  her  ilk,  to  disturb  his  conviction,  that  they  loved 
him  devotedly.  But  was  he  fit  to  have  charge  of  them  ? 
He  knew — none  better — his  weaknesses  and  limita- 
tions. What  was  needed  was  a  good  woman's  presence 
and  influence  and  common  sense.  But  how  could  that 
be  arranged  ?  Even  were  he  able  to  get  such  a  house- 


152  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

keeper  it  would  cut  Aunt  Martha  to  the  quick.  She 
believed  she  could  still  do  all  that  was  meet  and  neces- 
sary. He  could  not  so  hurt  and  insult  the  poor  old 
woman  who  had  been  so  kind  to  him  and  his.  How 
devoted  she  had  'been  to  Cecilia!  And  Cecilia  had 
asked  him  to  be  very  considerate  of  Aunt  Martha.  To 
be  sure,  he  suddenly  remembered  that  Aunt  Martha 
had  once  hinted  that  he  ought  to  marry  again.  He  felt 
she  would  not  resent  a  wife  as  she  would  a  house- 
keeper. But  that  was  out  of  the  question.  He  did  not 
wish  to  marry — he  did  not  and  could  not  care  for 
any  one.  Then  what  could  he  do?  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  go  over  to  Ingleside 
and  talk  over  his  difficulties  with  Mrs.  Blythe.  Mrs. 
Ely  the  was  one  of  the  few  women  he  never  felt  shy 
or  tongue-tied  with.  She  was  always  so  sympathetic 
and  refreshing.  It  might  be  that  she  could  suggest 
some  solution  of  his  problems.  And  even  if  she  could 
not  Mr.  Meredith  felt  that  he  needed  a  little  decent 
human  companionship  after  his  dose  of  Mrs.  Davis — 
something  to  take  the  taste  of  her  out  of  his  soul. 

He  dressed  hurriedly  and  ate  his  supper  less  ab- 
stractedly than  usual.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
a  poor  meal.  He  looked  at  his  children;  they  were 
rosy  and  healthy  looking  enough — except  Una,  and  she 
had  never  been  very  strong  even  when  her  mother  was 
alive.  They  were  all  laughing  and  talking — certainly 
they  seemed  happy.  Carl  was  especially  happy  because 
he  had  two  most  beautiful  spiders  crawling  around  his 


MRS.  DAVIS  MAKES  A  CA^L        153 

supper  plate.  Their  voices  were  pleasant,  their  man- 
ners did  not  seem  bad,  they  were  considerate  of  and 
gentle  to  one  another.  Yet  Mrs.  Davis  had  said  their 
behaviour  was  the  talk  of  the  congregation. 

As  Mr.  Meredith  went  through  his  gate  Dr.  Blythe 
and  Mrs.  Blythe  drove  past  on  the  road  that  led  to 
Lowbridge.  The  minister's  face  fell.  Mrs.  Blythe 
was  going  away — there  was  no  use  in  going  to  Ingle- 
side.  And  he  craved  a  little  companionship  more 
than  ever.  As  he  gazed  rather  hopelessly  over  the 
landscape  the  sunset  light  struck  on  a  window  of 
the  old  West  homestead  on  the  hill.  It  flared  out 
rosily  like  a  beacon  of  good  hope.  He  suddenly  re- 
membered Rosemary  and  Ellen  West.  He  thought 
that  he  would  relish  some  of  Ellen's  pungent  conver- 
sation. He  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  Rose- 
mary's slow,  sweet  smile  and  calm,  heavenly  blue  eyes 
again.  What  did  that  old  poem  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's 
say? — "continual  comfort  in  a  face" — that  just  suited 
her.  And  he  needed  comfort.  Why  not  go  and  call  ? 
He  remembered  that  Ellen  had  asked  him  to  drop  in 
sometimes  and  there  was  Rosemary's  book  to  take 
back — he  ought  to  take  it  back  before  he  forgot.  He 
had  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  there  were  a  great  many 
books  in  his  library  which  he  had  borrowed  at  sundry 
times  and  in  divers  places  and  had  forgotten  to  take 
back.  It  was  surely  his  duty  to  guard  against  that  in 
this  case.  He  went  back  into  his  study,  got  the  book, 
and  plunged  downward  into  Rainbow  Valley. 


CHAPTER  XV 
MORE  GOSSIP 

ON  the  evening  after  Mrs.  Myra  Murray  of  the 
over-harbour  section  had  been  buried  Miss  Cor- 
nelia and  Mary  Vance  came  up  to  Ingleside.  There 
were  several  things  concerning  which  Miss  Cornelia 
wished  to  unburden  her  soul.  The  funeral  had  to  be 
all  talked  over,  of  course.  Susan  and  Miss  Cornelia 
thrashed  this  out  between  them ;  Anne  took  no  part  or 
delight  in  such  ghoulish  conversations.  She  sat  a  little 
apart  and  watched  the  autumnal  flame  of  dahlias  in 
the  garden,  and  the  dreaming,  glamorous  harbour 
of  the  September  sunset.  Mary  Vance  sat  beside  her, 
knitting  meekly.  Mary's  heart  was  down  in  Rainbow 
Valley,  whence  came  sweet,  distance-softened  sounds 
of  children's  laughter,  but  her  fingers  were  under  Miss 
Cornelia's  eye.  She  had  to  knit  so  many  rounds  of 
her  stocking  before  she  might  go  to  the  valley.  Mary 
knit  and  held  her  tongue,  but  used  her  ears. 

"I  never  saw  a  nicer  looking  corpse,"  said  Miss  Cor- 
nelia judicially.  "Myra  Murray  was  always  a  pretty 
woman — she  was  a  Corey  from  Lowbridge  and  the 
Coreys  were  noted  for  their  good  looks." 

"I  said  to  the  corpse  as  I  passed  it,  'poor  woman,  I 
hope  you  are  as  happy  as  you  look,'  "  sighed  Susan. 
"She  had  not  changed  much.  That  dress  she  wore  was 


MORE  GOSSIP  155 

the  black  satin  she  got  for  her  daughter's  wedding 
fourteen  years  ago.  Her  aunt  told  her  then  to  keep 
it  for  her  funeral,  but  Myra  laughed  and  said,  'I  may 
wear  it  to  my  funeral,  Aunty,  but  I  will  have  a  good 
time  out  of  it  first.'  And  I  may  say  she  did.  Myra 
Murray  was  not  a  woman  to  attend  her  own  funeral 
before  she  died.  Many  a  time  afterwards  when  I 
saw  her  enjoying  herself  out  in  company  I  thought  to 
myself,  'You  are  a  handsome  woman,  Myra  Murray, 
and  that  dress  becomes  you,  but  it  will  likely  be  your 
shroud  at  last.'  And  you  see  my  words  have  come 
true,  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott." 

Susan  sighed  again  heavily.  She  was  enjoying  her- 
self hugely.  A  funeral  was  really  a  delightful  subject 
of  conversation. 

"I  always  liked  to  meet  Myra,"  said  Miss  Cornelia. 
"She  was  always  so  gay  and  cheerful — she  made  you 
feel  better  just  by  her  handshake.  Myra  always  made 
the  best  of  things." 

"That  is  true,"  asserted  Susan.  "Her  sister-in-law 
told  me  that  when  the  doctor  told  her  at  last  that  he 
could  do  nothing  for  her  and  she  would  never  rise 
from  that  bed  again,  Myra  said  quite  cheerfully,  'Well, 
if  that  is  so,  I'm  thankful  the  preserving  is  all  done, 
and  I  will  not  have  to  face  the  fall  housecleaning.  I 
always  liked  housecleaning  in  spring,'  she  says,  'but  I 
always  hated  it  in  the  fall.  I  will  get  clear  of  it  this 
year,  thank  goodness.'  There  are  people  who  would 
call  that  levity,  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott,  and  I  think  her 


156  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

sister-in-law  was  a  little  ashamed  of  it.  She  said  per- 
haps her  sickness  had  made  Myra  a  little  light-headed. 
But  I  said,  'No,  Mrs.  Murray,  do  not  worry  over  it. 
It  was  just  Myra's  way  of  looking  at  the  bright  side.' ' 

"Her  sister  Luella  was  just  the  opposite,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia.  "There  was  no  bright  side  for  Luella — 
there  was  just  black  and  shades  of  gray.  For  years 
she  used  always  to  be  declaring  she  was  going  to  die 
in  a  week  or  so.  'I  won't  be  here  to  burden  you  long/ 
she  would  tell  her  family  with  a  groan.  And  if  any 
of  them  ventured  to  talk  about  their  little  future  plans 
she'd  groan  also  and  say,  'Ah,  /  won't  be  here  then.' 
When  I  went  to  see  her  I  always  agreed  with  her  and 
it  made  her  so  mad  that  she  was  always  quite  a  lot 
better  for  several  days  afterward.  She  has  better 
health  now  but  no  more  cheerfulness.  Myra  w-as  so 
different.  She  was  always  doing  or  saying  something 
to  make  someone  feel  good.  Perhaps  the  men  they 
married  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Luella's  man 
was  a  Tartar,  believe  me,  while  Jim  Murray  was 
decent,  as  men  go.  He  looked  heart-broken  to-day. 
It  isn't  often  I  feel  sorry  for  a  man  at  his  wife's 
funeral,  but  I  did  feel  for  Jim  Murray." 

"No  wonder  he  looked  sad.  He  will  not  get  a  wife 
like  Myra  again  in  a  hurry,"  said  Susan.  "Maybe  he 
will  not  try,  since  his  children  are  all  grown  up  and 
Mirabel  is  able  to  keep  house.  But  there  is  no  predict- 
ing what  a  widower  may  or  may  not  do  and  I,  for 
one,  will  not  try." 


MORE  GOSSIP  157 

"We'll  miss  Myra  terrible  in  church,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia.  "She  was  such  a  worker.  Nothing  ever 
stumped  her.  If  she  couldn't  get  over  a  difficulty  she'd 
get  around  it,  and  if  she  couldn't  get  around  it  she'd 
pretend  it  wasn't  there — and  generally  it  wasn't.  Til 
keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  to  my  journey's  end,'  said  she  to 
me  once.  Well,  she  has  ended  her  journey." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  Anne  suddenly,  coming 
back  from  dreamland.  "I  can't  picture  her  journey 
as  being  ended.  Can  you  think  of  her  sitting  down 
and  folding  her  hands — that  eager,  asking  spirit  of 
hers,  with  its  fine  adventurous  outlook?  No,  I  think 
in  death  she  just  opened  a  gate  and  went  through — 
on — on — to  new,  shining  adventures." 

"Maybe — maybe,"  assented  Miss  Cornelia.  "Do 
you  know,  Anne  dearie,  I  never  was  much  taken  with 
this  everlasting  rest  doctrine  myself — though  I  hope 
it  isn't  heresy  to  say  so.  I  want  to  bustle  round  in 
heaven  the  same  as  here.  And  I  hope  there'll  be  a 
celestial  substitute  for  pies  and  doughnuts — something 
that  has  to  be  made.  Of  course,  one  does  get  awful 
tired  at  times — and  the  older  you  are  the  tireder  you 
get.  But  the  very  tiredest  could  get  rested  in  some- 
thing short  of  eternity,  you'd  think — except,  perhaps, 
a  lazy  man." 

"When  I  meet  Myra  Murray  again,"  said  Anne,  "I 
want  to  see  her  coming  towards  me,  brisk  and  laugh- 
ing, just  as  she  always  did  here." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan,  in  a  shocked  tone, 


158  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"you  surely  do  not  think  that  Myra  will  be  laughing 
in  the  world  to  come  ?" 

"Why  not,  Susan  ?  Do  you  think  we  will  be  crying 
there?" 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
I  do  not  think  we  shall  be  either  crying  or  laughing." 

"What  then?" 

"Well,"  said  Susan,  driven  to  it,  "it  is  my  opinion, 
Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  that  we  shall  just  look  solemn  and 
holy." 

"And  do  you  really  think,  Susan,"  said  Anne,  look- 
ing solemn  enough,  "that  either  Myra  Murray  or  I 
cculd  look  solemn  and  holy  all  the  time — all  the  time, 
Susan?" 

"Well,"  admitted  Susan  reluctantly,  "I  might  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that  you  both  would  have  to  smile  now 
and  again,  but  I  can  never  admit  that  there  will  be 
laughing  in  heaven.  The  idea  seems  really  irreverent, 
Mrs.  Dr.  dear." 

"Well,  to  come  back  to  earth,"  said  Miss  Cornelia, 
"who  can  we  get  to  take  Myra's  class  in  Sunday 
School?  Julia  Clow  has  been  teaching  it  since  Myra 
took  ill,  but  she's  going  to  town  for  the  winter  and 
we'll  have  to  get  somebody  else." 

"I  heard  that  Mrs.  Laurie  Jamieson  wanted  it,"  said 
Anne.  "The  Jamiesons  have  come  to  church  very 
regularly  since  they  moved  to  the  Glen  from  Low- 
bridge." 


MORE  GOSSIP  159 

"New  brooms!"  said  Miss  Cornelia  dubiously. 
"Wait  till  they've  gone  regularly  for  a  year." 

"You  cannot  depend  on  Mrs.  Jamieson  a  bit,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan  solemnly.  "She  died  once  and 
when  they  were  measuring  her  for  her  coffin,  after 
laying  her  out  just  beautiful,  did  she  not  go  and  come 
back  to  life!  Now,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  you  know  you 
cannot  depend  on  a  woman  like  that." 

"She  might  turn  Methodist  at  any  moment,"  said 
Miss  Cornelia.  "They  tell  me  they  went  to  the  Meth- 
odist Church  at  Lowbridge  quite  as  often  as  to  the 
Presbyterian.  I  haven't  caught  them  at  it  here  yet, 
but  I  would  not  approve  of  taking  Mrs.  Jamieson  into 
the  Sunday  School.  Yet  we  must  not  offend  them. 
We  are  losing  too  many  people,  by  death  or  bad  temper. 
Mrs.  Alec  Davis  has  left  the  church,  no  one  knows 
why.  She  told  the  managers  that  she  would  never  pay 
another  cent  to  Mr.  Meredith's  salary.  Of  course, 
most  people  say  that  the  children  offended  her,  but 
somehow  I  don't  think  so.  I  tried  to  pump  Faith,  but 
all  I  could  get  out  of  her  was  that  Mrs.  Davis  had 
come,  seemingly  in  high  good  humour,  to  see  her 
father,  and  had  left  in  an  awful  rage,  calling  them  all 
'varmints !'  " 

"Varmints,  indeed!"  said  Susan  furiously.  "Does 
Mrs.  Alec  Davis  forget  that  her  uncle  on  her  mother's 
side  was  suspected  of  poisoning  his  wife?  Not  that  it 
was  ever  proved,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  it  does  not  do 


160  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

to  believe  all  you  hear.  But  if  /  had  an  uncle  whose 
wife  died  without  any  satisfactory  reason,  /  would 
not  go  about  the  country  calling  innocent  children  var- 
mints." 

"The  point  is,"  said  Miss  Cornelia,  "that  Mrs.  Davis 
paid  a  large  subscription,  and  how  its  loss  is  going  tc 
be  made  up  is  a  problem.  And  if  she  turns  the  other 
Douglases  against  Mr.  Meredith,  as  she  will  certainly 
try  to  do,  he  will  just  have  to  go." 

"I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  is  very  well  liked 
by  the  rest  of  the  clan,"  said  Susan.  "It  is  not  likely 
she  will  be  able  to  influence  them." 

"But  those  Douglases  all  hang  together  so.  If 
you  touch  one,  you  touch  all.  We  can't  do  without 
them,  so  much  is  certain.  They  pay  half  the  salary. 
They  are  not  mean,  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  them. 
Norman  Douglas  used  to  give  a  hundred  a  year  long 
ago  before  he  left." 

"What  did  he  leave  for?"  asked  Anne. 

"He  declared  a  member  of  the  session  cheated  him 
in  a  cow  deal.  He  hasn't  come  to  church  for  twenty 
years.  His  wife  used  to  come  regular  while  she  was 
alive,  poor  thing,  but  he  never  would  let  her  pay  any- 
thing, except  one  red  cent  every  Sunday.  She  felt 
dreadfully  humiliated.  I  don't  know  that  he  was  any 
too  good  a  husband  to  her,  though  she  was  never  heard 
to  complain.  But  she  always  had  a  cowed  look.  Nor- 
man Douglas  didn't  get  the  woman  he  wanted  thirty 


MORE  GOSSIP  161 

years  ago  and  the  Douglases  never  liked  to  put  up  with 
second  best." 

"Who  was  the  woman  he  did  want" 

"Ellen  West.  They  weren't  engaged  exactly,  I  be- 
lieve, but  they  went  about  together  for  two  years.  And 
then  they  just  broke  off — nobody  ever  knew  why. 
Just  some  silly  quarrel,  I  suppose.  And  Norman  went 
and  married  Hester  Reese  before  his  temper  had  time 
to  cool — married  her  just  to  spite  Ellen,  I  haven't  a 
doubt.  So  like  a  man !  Hester  was  a  nice  little  thing, 
but  she  never  had  much  spirit  and  he  broke  what  little 
she  had.  She  was  too  meek  for  Norman.  He  needed 
a  woman  who  could  stand  up  to  him.  Ellen  would 
have  kept  him  in  fine  order  and  he  would  have  liked 
her  all  the  better  for  it.  He  despised  Hester,  that  is 
the  truth,  just  because  she  always  gave  in  to  him.  I 
used  to  hear  him  say  many  a  time,  long  ago  when  he 
was  a  young  fellow,  'Give  me  a  spunky  woman — 
spunk  for  me  every  time/  And  then  he  went  and  mar- 
ried a  girl  who  couldn't  say  bo  to  a  goose — man-like. 
That  family  of  Reeses  were  just  vegetables.  They 
went  through  the  motions  of  living,  but  they  didn't 
live." 

"Russell  Reese  used  his  first  wife's  wedding  ring 
to  marry  his  second,"  said  Susan  reminiscently.  "That 
was  too  economical  in  my  opinion,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  And 
his  brother  John  has  his  own  tombstone  put  up  in  the 
over-harbour  graveyard,  with  everything  on  it  but  the 
date  of  death,  and  he  goes  and  looks  at  it  every  Sun- 


162  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

day.  Most  folks  would  not  consider  that  much  fun, 
but  it  is  plain  he  does.  People  do  have  such  different 
ideas  of  enjoyment.  As  for  Norman  Douglas,  he  is 
a  perfect  heathen.  When  the  last  minister  asked  him 
why  he  never  went  to  church  he  said  'Too  many  ugly 
women  there,  parson — too  many  ugly  women!'  I 
should  like  to  go  to  such  a  man,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and 
say  to  him  solemnly,  'There  is  a  hell !' ' 

"Oh,  Norman  doesn't  believe  there  is  such  a  place," 
said  Miss  Cornelia.  "I  hope  he'll  find  out  his  mistake 
when  he  comes  to  die.  There,  Mary,  you've  knit  your 
three  inches  and  you  can  go  and  play  with  the  children 
for  half  an  hour." 

Mary  needed  no  second  bidding.  She  flew  to  Rain- 
bow Valley  with  a  heart  as  light  as  her  heels,  and  in 
the  course  of  conversation  told  Faith  Meredith  all 
about  Mrs.  Alec  Davis. 

"And  Mrs.  Elliott  says  that  she'll  turn  all  the 
Douglases  against  your  father  and  then  he'll  have  to 
leave  the  Glen  because  his  salary  won't  be  paid,"  con- 
cluded Mary.  "I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done,  honest 
to  goodness.  If  only  old  Norman  Douglas  would  come 
back  to  church  and  pay,  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But 
he  won't — -and  the  Douglases  will  leave — and  you  all 
will  have  to  go." 

Faith  carried  a  heavy  heart  to  bed  with  her  that 
night.  The  thought  of  leaving  the  Glen  was  unbear- 
able. Nowhere  else  in  the  world  were  there  such 
chums  as  the  Blythes.  Her  little  heart  had  been  wrung 


MORE  GOSSIP  163 

when  they  had  left  May  water — she  had  shed  many 
bitter  tears  when  she  parted  with  Maywater  chums  and 
the  old  manse  there  where  her  mother  had  lived  and 
died.  She  could  not  contemplate  calmly  the  thought 
of  such  another  and  harder  wrench.  She  couldn't 
leave  Glen  St.  Mary  and  dear  Rainbow  Valley  and  that 
delicious  graveyard. 

"It's  awful  to  be  a  minister's  family,"  groaned  Faith 
into  her  pillow.  "Just  as  soon  as  you  get  fond  of  a 
place  you  are  torn  up  by  the  roots.  I'll  never,  never, 
never  marry  a  minister,  no  matter  how  nice  he  is." 

Faith  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  out  of  the  little  vine- 
hung  window.  The  night  was  very  still,  the  silence 
broken  only  by  Una's  soft  breathing.  Faith  felt  terribly 
alone  in  the  world.  She  could  see  Glen  St.  Mary  lying 
under  the  starry  blue  meadows  of  the  autumn  night. 
Over  the  valley  a  light  shone  from  the  girls'  room  at 
Ingleside,  and  another  from  Walter's  room.  Faith 
wondered  if  poor  Walter  had  toothache  again.  Then 
she  sighed,  with  a  little  passing  sigh  of  envy  of  Nan 
and  Di.  They  had  a  mother  and  a  settled  home — they 
were  not  at  the  mercy  of  people  who  got  angry  without 
any  reason  and  called  you  a  varmint.  Away  beyond 
the  Glen,  amid  fields  that  were  very  quiet  with  sleep, 
another  light  was  burning.  Faith  knew  it  shone  in 
the  house  where  Norman  Douglas  lived.  He  was  re- 
puted to  sit  up  all  hours  of  the  night  reading.  Mary 
had  said  if  he  could  only  be  induced  to  return  to  the 
church  all  would  be  well.  And  why  not?  Faith 


164  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

looked  at  a  big,  low  star  hanging  over  the  tall,  pointed 
spruce  at  the  gate  of  the  Methodist  Church  and  had  an 
inspiration.  She  knew  what  ought  to  be  done  and  she, 
Faith  Meredith,  would  do  it.  She  would  make  every- 
thing right.  With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  she  turned 
from  the  lonely,  dark  world  and  cuddled  down  beside 
Una. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
TIT  FOR  TAT 

WITH  Faith,  to  decide  was  to  act.     She  lost  no 
time  in  carrying  out  her  idea.    As  soon  as  she 
came  home  from  school  the  next  day  she  left  the  manse 
and  made  her  way  down  the  Glen.     Walter  Blythe 
joined  her  as  she  passed  the  post  office. 

"I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Elliott's  on  an  errand  for 
mother,"  he  said.  "Where  are  you  going,  Faith?" 

"I  am  going  somewhere  on  church  business,"  said 
Faith  loftily.  She  did  not  volunteer  any  further  in- 
formation and  Walter  felt  rather  snubbed.  They 
walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while.  It  was  a  warm, 
windy  evening  with  a  sweet,  resinous  air.  Beyond  the 
sand  dunes  were  gray  seas,  soft  and  beautiful.  The 
Glen  brook  bore  down  a  freight  of  gold  and  crimson 
leaves,  like  fairy  shallops.  In  Mr.  James  Reese's 
buckwheat  stubble-land,  with  its  beautiful  tones  of 
red  and  brown,  a  crow  parliament  was  being  held, 
whereat  solemn  deliberations  regarding  the  welfare 
of  crowland  were  in  progress.  Faith  cruelly  broke 
up  the  august  assembly  by  climbing  up  on  the  fence 
and  hurling  a  broken  rail  at  it.  Instantly  the  air  was 
rilled  with  flapping  black  wings  and  indignant  caws. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  said  Walter  reproachfully. 
"They  were  having  such  a  good  time." 

165 


166  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Oh,  I  hate  crows,"  said  Faith  airily.  "They  are 
so  black  and  sly  I  feel  sure  they're  hypocrites.  They 
steal  little  birds'  eggs  out  of  their  nests,  you  know.  I 
saw  one  do  it  on  our  lawn  last  spring.  Walter,  what 
makes  you  so  pale  to-day?  Did  you  have  the  tooth- 
ache again  last  night?" 

Walter  shivered. 

"\es — a  raging  one.  I  couldn't  sleep  a  wink — so 
I  just  paced  up  and  down  the  floor  and  imagined  I  was 
an  early  Christian  martyr  being  tortured  at  the  com- 
mand of  Nero.  That  helped  ever  so  much  for  a  while 
— and  then  I  got  so  bad  I  couldn't  imagine  anything." 

"Did  you  cry?"  asked  Faith  anxiously. 

"No — but  I  lay  down  on  the  floor  and  groaned," 
admitted  Walter.  "Then  the  girls  came  in  and  Nan 
put  cayenne  pepper  in  it — and  that  made  it  worse — and 
Di  made  me  hold  a  swallow  of  cold  water  in  my  mouth 
— and  I  couldn't  stand  it,  so  they  called  Susan.  Susan 
said  it  served  me  right  for  sitting  up  in  the  cold  garret 
yesterday  writing  poetry  trash.  But  she  started  up  the 
kitchen  fire  and  got  me  a  hot  water  bottle  and  it 
stopped  the  toothache.  As  soon  as  I  felt  better  I  told 
Susan  my  poetry  wasn't  trash  and  she  wasn't  any 
judge.  And  she  said  no,  thank  goodness  she  was  not 
and  she  did  not  know  anything  about  poetry  except 
that  it  was  mostly  a  lot  of  lies.  Now,  you  know, 
Faith,  that  isn't  so.  That  is  one  reason  why  I  like 
writing  poetry — you  can  say  so  many  things  in  it  that 
are  true  in  poetry  but  wouldn't  be  true  in  prose.  I 


TIT  FOR  TAT  167 

told  Susan  so,  but  she  said  to  stop  my  jawing  and  go 
to  sleep  before  the  water  got  cold,  or  she'd  leave  me  to 
see  if  rhyming  would  cure  toothache,  and  she  hoped 
it  would  be  a  lesson  to  me." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  dentist  at  Lowbridge  and 
get  the  tooth  out?" 

Walter  shivered  again. 

"They  want  me  to — but  I  can't.    It  would  hurt  so." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  a  little  pain?"  asked  Faith  con- 
temptuously. 

Walter  flushed. 

"It  would  be  a  big  pain.  I  hate  being  hurt.  Father 
said  he  wouldn't  insist  on  my  going — he'd  wait  until 
I'd  made  up  my  own  mind  to  go." 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  as  long  as  the  toothache,"  argued 
Faith.  "You've  had  five  spells  of  toothache.  If  you'd 
just  go  and  have  it  out  there' d  be  no  more  bad  nights. 
/  had  a  tooth  out  once.  I  yelled  for  a  moment,  but  it 
was  all  over  then — only  the  bleeding." 

"The  bleeding  is  worst  of  all — it's  so  ugly,"  cried 
Walter.  "It  just  made  me  sick  when  Jem  cut  his 
foot  last  summer.  Susan  said  I  looked  more  like  faint- 
ing than  Jem  did.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  Jem  hurt, 
either.  Somebody  is  always  getting  hurt,  Faith — and 
it's  awful.  I  just  can't  bear  to  see  things  hurt.  It 
makes  me  just  want  to  run — and  run — and  run — till 
I  can't  hear  or  see  them." 

"There's  no  use  making  a  fuss  over  any  one  getting 
hurt,"  said  Faith,  tossing  her  curls.  "Of  course,  if 


i68  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

you're  hurt  yourself  very  bad,  you  have  to  yell — and 
blood  is  messy — and  I  don't  like  seeing  other  people 
hurt,  either.  But  I  don't  want  to  run — I  want  to  go 
to  work  and  help  them.  Your  father  has  to  hurt  people 
lots  of  times  to  cure  them.  What  would  they  do  if 
he  ran  away?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  would  run.  I  said  I  wanted  to  run. 
That's  a  different  thing.  I  want  to  help  people,  too. 
But  oh,  I  wish  there  weren't  any  ugly,  dreadful  things 
in  the  world.  I  wish  everything  was  glad  and  beauti- 
ful." 

"Well,  don't  let's  think  of  what  isn't,"  said  Faith. 
"After  all,  there's  lots  of  fun  in  being  alive.  You 
wouldn't  have  toothache  if  you  were  dead,  but  still, 
wouldn't  you  lots  rather  be  alive  than  dead  ?  I  would, 
a  hundred  times.  Oh,  here's  Dan  Reese.  He's  been 
down  to  the  harbour  for  fish." 

"I  hate  Dan  Reese,"  said  Walter. 

"So  do  I.  All  us  girls  do.  I'm  just  going  to  walk 
past  and  never  take  the  least  notice  of  him.  You  watch 
me!" 

Faith  accordingly  stalked  past  Dan  with  her  chin 
out  and  an  expression  of  scorn  that  bit  into  his  soul. 
He  turned  and  shouted  after  her. 

"Pig-girl!  Pig-girl!!  Pig-girl!!!"  in  a  crescendo 
of  insult. 

Faith  walked  on,  seemingly  oblivious.  But  her  lip 
trembled  slightly  with  a  sense  of  outrage.  She  knew 
she  was  no  match  for  Dan  Reese  when  it  came  to  an 


TIT  FOR  TAT  169 

exchange  of  epithets.  She  wished  Jem  Blythe  had 
been  with  her  instead  of  Walter.  If  Dan  Reese  had 
dared  to  call  her  a  pig-girl  in  Jem's  hearing  Jem  would 
have  wiped  up  the  dust  with  him.  But  it  never  oc- 
curred to  Faith  to  expect  Walter  to  do  it,  or  blame 
him  for  not  doing  it.  Walter,  she  knew,  never  fought 
other  boys.  Neither  did  Charlie  Clow  of  the  north 
road.  The  strange  part  was  that,  while  she  despised 
Charlie  for  a  coward,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  dis- 
dain Walter.  It  was  simply  that  he  seemed  to  her 
an  inhabitant  of  a  world  of  his  own,  where  different 
traditions  prevailed.  Faith  would  as  soon  have  ex- 
pected a  starry-eyed  young  angel  to  pummel  dirty, 
freckled  Dan  Reese  for  her  as  Walter  Blythe.  She 
would  not  have  blamed  the  angel  and  she  did  not  blame 
Walter  Blythe.  But  she  wished  that  sturdy  Jem  or 
Jerry  had  been  there  and  Dan's  insult  continued  to 
rankle  in  her  seul. 

Walter  was  pale  no  longer.  He  had  flushed  crimson 
and  his  beautiful  eyes  were  clouded  with  shame  and 
anger.  He  knew  that  he  ought  to  have  avenged  Faith. 
Jem  would  have  sailed  right  in  and  made  Dan  eat  his 
words  with  bitter  sauce.  Ritchie  Warren  would  have 
overwhelmed  Dan  with  worse  "names"  than  Dan  had 
called  Faith.  But  Walter  could  not — simply  could  not 
— "call  names."  He  knew  he  would  get  the  worst  of 
it.  He  could  never  conceive  or  utter  the  vulgar,  ribald 
insults  of  which  Dan  Reese  had  unlimited  command. 
And  as  for  the  trial  by  fist,  Walter  couldn't  fight.  He 


170  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

hated  the  idea.  It  was  rough  and  painful — and,  worst 
of  all,  it  was  ugly.  He  never  could  understand  Jem's 
exultation  in  an  occasional  conflict.  But  he  wished 
he  could  fight  Dan  Reese.  He  was  horribly  ashamed 
because  Faith  Meredith  had  been  insulted  in  his  pres- 
ence and  he  had  not  tried  to  punish  her  insulter.  He 
felt  sure  she  must  despise  him.  She  had  not  even 
spoken  to  him  since  Dan  had  called  her  pig-girl.  He 
was  glad  when  they  came  to  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

Faith,  too,  was  relieved,  though  for  a  different  rea- 
son. She  wanted  to  be  alone  because  she  suddenly  felt 
rather  nervous  about  her  errand.  Impulse  had  cooled, 
especially  since  Dan  had  bruised  her  self-respect.  She 
must  go  through  with  it,  but  she  no  longer  had  enthu- 
siasm to  sustain  her.  She  was  going  to  see  Norman 
Douglas  and  ask  him  to  come  back  to  church,  and  she 
began  to  be  afraid  of  him.  What  had  seemed  so  easy 
and  simple  up  at  the  Glen  seemed  very  different  down 
here.  She  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  Norman 
Douglas,  and  she  knew  that  even  the  biggest  boys  in 
school  were  afraid  of  him.  Suppose  he  called  her 
something  nasty — she  had  heard  he  was  given  to  that. 
Faith  could  not  endure  being  called  names — they  sub- 
dued her  far  more  quickly  than  a  physical  blow.  .But 
she  would  go  on — Faith  Meredith  always  went  on. 
If  she  did  not  her  father  might  have  to  leave  the  Glen. 

At  the  end  of  the  long  lane  Faith  came  to  the  house 
— a  big,  old-fashioned  one  with  a  row  of  soldierly 
Lombardies  marching  past  it.  On  the  back  veranda 


TIT  FOR  TAT  171 

Norman  Douglas  himself  was  sitting,  reading  a  news- 
paper. His  big  dog  was  beside  him.  Behind,  in  the 
kitchen,  where  his  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Wilson,  was  get- 
ting supper,  there  was  a  clatter  of  dishes — an  angry 
clatter,  for  Norman  Douglas  had  just  had  a  quarrel 
with  Mrs.  Wilson,  and  both  were  in  a  very  bad  temper 
over  it.  Consequently,  when  Faith  stepped  on  the 
veranda  and  Norman  Douglas  lowered  his  newspaper 
she  found  herself  looking  into  the  choleric  eyes  of  an 
irritated  man. 

Norman  Douglas  was  rather  a  fine  looking  person- 
age in  his  way.  He  had  a  sweep  of  long  red  beard 
over  his  broad  chest  and  a  mane  of  red  hair,  ungrizzled 
by  the  years,  on  his  massive  head.  His  high,  white 
forehead  was  unwrinkled  and  his  blue  eyes  could  flash 
still  with  all  the  fire  of  his  tempestuous  youth.  He 
could  be  very  amiable  when  he  liked,  and  he  could  be 
very  terrible.  Poor  Faith,  so  anxiously  bent  on  re- 
trieving the  situation  in  regard  to  the  church,  had 
caught  him  in  one  of  his  terrible  moods. 

He  did  not  know  who  she  was  and  he  gazed  at  her 
with  disfavour.  Norman  Douglas  liked  girls  of  spirit 
and  flame  and  laughter.  At  this  moment  Faith  was 
very  pale.  She  was  of  the  type  to  which  colour  means 
everything.  Lacking  her  crimson  cheeks  she  seemed 
meek  and  even  insignificant.  She  looked  apologetic 
and  afraid,  and  the  bully  in  Norman  Douglas'  heart 
stirred. 

"Who  the  dickens  are  you?    And  what  do  you  want 


172  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

here?"  he  demanded  in  his  great  resounding  voice, 
with  a  fierce  scowl. 

For  once  in  her  life  Faith  had  nothing  to  say.  She 
had  never  supposed  Norman  Douglas  was  like  this. 
She  was  paralyzed  with  terror  of  him.  He  saw  it 
and  it  made  him  worse. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  boomed.  "You 
look  as  if  you  wanted  to  say  something  and  was  scared 
to  say  it.  What's  troubling  you?  Confound  it,  speak 
up,  can't  you?" 

No.  Faith  could  not  speak  up.  No  words  would 
come.  But  her  lips  began  to  tremble. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  cry,"  shouted  Noirman. 
"I  can't  stand  snivelling.  If  you've  anything  to  say, 
say  it  and  have  done.  Great  Kitty,  is  the  girl  possessed 
of  a  dumb  spirit?  Don't  look  at  me  like  that — I'm 
human — I  haven't  got  a  tail !  Who  are  you — who  are 
you,  I  say?" 

Norman's  voice  could  have  been  heard  at  the  har- 
bour. Operations  in  the  kitchen  were  suspended.  Mrs. 
Wilson  was  listening  open-eared  and  eyed.  Norman 
put  his  huge  brown  hands  on  his  knees  and  leaned 
forward,  staring  into  Faith's  pallid,  shrinking  face. 
He  seemed  to  loom  over  her  like  some  evil  giant  out 
of  a  fairy  tale.  She  felt  as  if  he  would  eat  her  up 
next  thing,  body  and  bones. 

"I — am — Faith — Meredith,"  she  said,  in  little  more 
than  a  whisper. 

"Meredith,  hey?    One  of  the  parson's  youngsters, 


TIT  FOR  TAT  173 

hey?  I've  heard  of  you — I've  heard  of  you!  Riding 
on  pigs  and  breaking  the  Sabbath !  A  nice  lot !  What 
do  you  want  here,  hey?  What  do  you  want  of  the 
old  pagan,  hey?  /  don't  ask  favours  of  parsons — and 
I  don't  give  any.  What  do  you  want,  I  say?" 

Faith  wished  herself  a  thousand  miles  away.  She 
stammered  out  her  thought  in  its  naked  simplicity. 

"I  came — to  ask  you — to  go  to  church — and  pay — 
to  the  salary." 

Norman  glared  at  her.    Then  he  burst  forth  again. 

"You  impudent  young  hussy — you!  Who  put  you 
up  to  it,  jade?  Who  put  you  up  to  it?" 

"Nobody,"  said  poor  Faith. 

"That's  a  lie.  Don't  lie  to  me!  Who  sent  you 
here?  It  wasn't  your  father — he  hasn't  the  smeddum 
of  a  flea — but  he  wouldn't  send  you  to  do  what  he 
dassn't  do  himself.  I  suppose  it  was  some  of  them 
confounded  old  maids  at  the  Glen,  was  it — was  it, 
hey?" 

"No — I — I  just  came  myself." 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool  ?"  shouted  Norman. 

"No — I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,"  said  Faith 
faintly,  and  certainly  without  any  thought  of  being 
sarcastic. 

Norman  bounced  up. 

"Mind  your  own  business.  I  don't  want  to  hear 
another  word  from  you.  If  you  wasn't  such  a  kid 
I'd  teach  you  to  interfere  in  what  doesn't  concern  you. 
When  I  want  parsons  or  pill-dosers  I'll  send  for  them. 


174  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Till  I  do  I'll  have  no  truck  with  them.  Do  you  under- 
stand? Now,  get  out,  cheese-face." 

Faith  got  out.  She  stumbled  blindly  down  the  steps, 
out  of  the  yard  gate  and  into  the  lane.  Half  way  up 
the  lane  her  daze  of  fear  passed  away  and  a  reaction 
of  tingling  anger  possessed  her.  By  the  time  she 
reached  the  end  of  the  lane  she  was  in  such  a  furious 
temper  as  she  had  never  experienced  before.  Norman 
Douglas'  insults  burned  in  her  soul,  kindling  a  scorch- 
ing flame.  She  shut  her  teeth  and  clenched  her  fists. 
Go  home !  Not  she !  She  would  go  straight  back  and 
tell  that  old  ogre  just  what  she  thought  of  him — she 
would  show  him — oh,  wouldn't  she!  Cheese-face, 
indeed ! 

Unhesitatingly  she  turned  and  walked  back.  The 
veranda  was  deserted  and  the  kitchen  door  shut.  Faith 
opened  the  door  without  knocking,  and  went  in.  Nor- 
man Douglas  had  just  sat  down  at  the  supper  table, 
but  he  still  held  his  newspaper.  Faith  walked  inflexibly 
across  the  room,  caught  the  paper  from  his  hand,  flung 
it  on  the  floor  and  stamped  on  it.  Then  she  faced  him, 
with  her  flashing  eyes  and  scarlet  cheeks.  She  was 
such  a  handsome  young  fury  that  Norman  Douglas 
hardly  recognized  her. 

"What's  brought  you  back?"  he  growled,  but  more 
in  bewilderment  than  rage. 

Unquailingly  she  glared  back  into  the  angry  eyes 
against  which  so  few  people  could  hold  their  own. 

"I  have  come  back  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  think 


TIT  FOR  TAT  175 

of  you,"  said  Faith  in  clear,  ringing  tones.  "I  am  not 
afraid  of  you.  You  are  a  rude,  unjust,  tyrranical,  dis- 
agreeable old  man.  Susan  says  you  are  sure  to  go  to 
hell,  and  I  was  sorry  for  you,  but  I  am  not  now.  Your 
wife  never  had  a  new  hat  for  ten  years — no  wonder 
she  died.  I  am  going  to  make  faces  at  you  whenever 
I  see  you  after  this.  Every  time  I  am  behind  you  you 
will  know  what  is  happening.  Father  has  a  picture  of 
the  devil  in  a  book  in  his  study,  and  I  mean  to  go  home 
and  write  your  name  under  it.  You  are  an  old  vam- 
pire and  I  hope  you'll  have  the  Scotch  fiddle !" 

Faith  did  not  know  what  a  vampire  meant  any  more 
than  she  knew  what  the  Scotch  fiddle  was.  She  had 
heard  Susan  use  the  expressions  and  gathered  from 
her  tone  that  both  were  dire  things.  But  Norman 
Douglas  knew  what  the  latter  meant  at  least.  He 
'had  listened  in  absolute  silence  to  Faith's  tirade. 
When  she  paused  for  breath,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot, 
he  suddenly  burst  into  loud  laughter.  With  a  mighty 
slap  of  hand  on  knee  he  exclaimed, 

"I  vow  you've  got  spunk,  after  all — I  like  spunk. 
Come,  sit  down — sit  down !" 

"I  will  not."  Faith's  eyes  flashed  still  more  pas- 
sionately. She  thought  she  was  being  made  fun  of — 
treated  contemptuously.  She  would  have  enjoyed  an- 
other explosion  of  rage,  but  this  cut  deep.  "I  will 
not  sit  down  in  your  house.  I  am  going  home.  But 
I  am  glad  I  came  back  here  and  told  you  exactly  what 
my  opinion  of  you  is." 


176  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"So  am  I — so  am  I,"  chuckled  Norman.  "I  like 
you — you're  fine — you're  great.  Such  roses — such 
vim!  Did  I  call  her  cheese- face?  Why,  she  never 
smelt  a  cheese.  Sit  down.  If  you'd  looked  like  that 
at  the  first,  girl !  So  you'll  write  my  name  under  the 
devil's  picture,  will  you?  But  he's  black,  girl,  he's 
black — and  I'm  red.  It  won't  do — it  won't  do !  And 
you  hope  I'll  'have  the  Scotch  fiddle,  do  you?  Lord 
love  you,  girl,  I  had  it  when  I  was  a  boy.  Don't  wish 
it  on  me  again.  Sit  down — sit  in.  We'll  tak'  a  cup  o' 
kindness." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Faith  haughtily. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  Come,  come  now,  I  apologize, 
girl — I  apologize.  I  made  a  fool  of  myself  and  I'm 
sorry.  Man  can't  say  fairer.  Forget  and  forgive. 
Shake  hands,  girl, — shake  hands.  She  won't — no,  she 
won't!  But  she  must!  Look-a-here,  girl,  if  you'll 
shake  hands  and  break  bread  with  me  I'll  pay  what  I 
used  to  to  the  salary  and  I'll  go  to  church  the  first 
Sunday  in  every  month  and  I'll  make  Kitty  Alec  hold 
her  jaw.  I'm  the  only  one  in  the  clan  can  do  it.  Is  it  a 
bargain,  girl  ?" 

It  seemed  to  be  a  bargain.  Faith  found  herself  shak- 
ing hands  with  the  ogre  and  then  sitting  at  his  board. 
Her  temper  was  over — Faith's  tempers  never  lasted 
very  long — but  its  excitement  still  sparkled  in  her  eyes 
and  crimsoned  her  cheeks.  Norman  Douglas  looked 
at  her  admiringly. 

"Go,  get  some  of  your  best  preserves,  Wilson," 


TIT  FOR  TAT  177 

he  ordered,  "and  stop  sulking,  woman,  stop  sulking. 
What  if  we  did  have  a  quarrel,  woman?  A  good 
squall  clears  the  air  and  briskens  things  up.  But  no 
drizzling  and  fogging  afterwards — no  drizzling  and 
fogging,  woman.  I  can't  stand  that.  Temper  in  a 
woman  but  no  tears  for  me.  Here,  girl,  is  some 
messed  up  meat  and  potatoes  for  you.  Begin  on  that. 
Wilson  has  some  fancy  name  for  it,  but  I  call  it  maca- 
naccady.  Anything  I  can't  analyze  in  the  eating  line 
I  call  macanaccady  and  anything  wet  that  puzzles  me 
I  call  shallamagouslem.  Wilson's  tea  is  shallama- 
gouslem.  I  swear  she  makes  it  out  of  burdocks.  Don't 
take  any  of  the  ungodly  black  liquid — here's  some  milk 
for  you.  What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?" 

"Faith." 

"No  name  that — no  name  that!  I  can't  stomach 
such  a  name.  Got  any  other  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Don't  like  the  name,  don't  like  it.  There's  no 
smeddum  to  it.  Besides,  it  makes  me  think  of  my 
Aunt  Jinny.  She  called  her  three  girls  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity.  Faith  didn't  believe  in  anything — Hope 
was  a  born  pessimist — and  Charity  was  a  miser.  You 
ought  to  be  called  Red  Rose — you  look  like  one  when 
you're  mad.  7'11  call  you  Red  Rose.  And  you've 
roped  me  into  promising  to  go  to  church?  But  only 
once  a  month,  remember — only  once  a  month.  Come 
now,  girl,  will  you  let  me  off  ?  I  used  to  pay  a  hundred 
to  the  salary  every  year  and  go  to  church.  If  I 


178  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

promise  to  pay  two  hundred  a  year  will  you  let  me  off 
going  to  church  ?  Come  now !" 

"No,  no,  sir,"  said  Faith,  dimpling  roguishly.  "I 
want  you  to  go  to  church,  too." 

"Well,  a  bargain  is  a  bargain.  I  reckon  I  can  stand 
it  twelve  times  a  year.  What  a  sensation  it'll  make 
the  first  Sunday  I  go !  And  old  Susan  Baker  says  I'm 
going  to  hell,  hey  ?  Do  you  believe  I'll  go  there — come, 
now,  do  you?" 

"I  hope  not,  sir,"  stammered  Faith  in  some  con- 
fusion. 

"Why  do  you  hope  not?  Come,  now,  why  do  you 
hope  not  ?  Give  us  a  reason,  girl — give  us  a  reason." 

"It — it  must  be  a  very — uncomfortable  place,  sir." 

"Uncomfortable  ?  All  depends  on  your  taste  in  com- 
pany, girl.  I'd  soon  get  tired  of  angels.  Fancy  old 
Susan  in  a  halo,  now !" 

Faith  did  fancy  it,  and  it  tickled  her  so  much  that 
she  had  to  laugh.  Norman  eyed  her  approvingly. 

"See  the  fun  of  it,  hey?  Oh,  I  like  you — you're 
great.  About  this  church  business  now — can  your 
father  preach?" 

"He  is  a  splendid  preacher,"  said  loyal  Faith. 

"He  is,  hey?  I'll  see — I'll  watch  out  for  flaws. 
He'd  belter  be  careful  what  he  says  before  me.  I'll 
catch  him — I'll  trip  him  up — I'll  keep  tabs  on  his  argu- 
ments. I'm  bound  to  have  some  fun  out  of  this  church 
going  business.  Does  he  ever  preach  hell?" 

"No — o — o — I  don't  think  so." 


TIT  FOR  TAT  179 

"Too  bad.  I  like  sermons  on  that  subject.  You  tell 
him  that  if  he  wants  to  keep  me  in  good  humour  to 
preach  a  good  rip-roaring  sermon  on  hell  once  every 
six  months — and  the  more  brimstone  the  better.  I  like 
'em  smoking.  And  think  of  all  the  pleasure  he'd  give 
the  old  maids,  too.  They'd  all  keep  looking  at  old 
Norman  Douglas  and  thinking,  'That's  for  you,  you 
old  reprobate.  That's  what's  in  store  for  you!'  I'll 
give  an  extra  ten  dollars  every  time  you  get  your 
father  to  preach  on  hell.  Here's  Wilson  and  the  jam. 
Like  that,  hey  ?  //  isn't  macanaccady.  Taste !" 

Faith  obediently  swallowed  the  big  spoonful  Nor- 
man held  out  to  her.  Luckily  it  was  good. 

"Best  plum  jam  in  the  world,"  said  Norman,  filling 
a  large  saucer  and  plumping  it  down  before  her.  "Glad 
you  like  it.  I'll  give  you  a  couple  of  jars  to  take  home 
with  you.  There's  nothing  mean  about  me — never 
was.  The  devil  can't  catch  me  at  that  corner,  anyhow. 
It  wasn't  my  fault  that  Hester  didn't  have  a  new  hat 
for  ten  years.  It  was  her  own — she  pinched  on  hats 
to  save  money  to  give  yellow  fellows  over  in  China.  / 
never  gave  a  cent  to  missions  in  my  life — never  will. 
Never  you  try  to  bamboozle  me  into  that !  A  hundred 
a  year  to  the  salary  and  church  once  a  month — but  no 
spoiling  good  heathen  to  make  poor  Christians !  Why, 
girl,  they  wouldn't  be  fit  for  heaven  or  hell — clean 
spoiled  for  either  place — clean  spoiled.  Hey,  Wilson, 
haven't  you  got  a  smile  on  yet?  Beats  all  how  you 
women  can  sulk!  /  never  sulked  in  my  life — it's  just 


180  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

one  big  flash  and  crash  with  me  and  then — pouf — the 
squall's  over  and  the  sun  is  out  and  you  could  eat  out 
of  my  hand." 

Norman  insisted  on  driving  Faith  home  after  supper 
and  he  filled  the  buggy  up  with  apples,  cabbages,  pota- 
toes and  pumpkins  and  jars  of  jam. 

"There's  a  nice  little  torn-pussy  out  in  the  barn.  I'll 
give  you  that  too,  if  you'd  like  it.  Say  the  word," 
he  said. 

"No,  thank,  you,"  said  Faith,  decidedly.  "I  don't 
like  cats,  and,  besides,  I  have  a  rooster." 

"Listen  to  her.  You  can't  cuddle  a  rooster  as  you 
can  a  kitten.  Who  ever  heard  of  petting  a  rooster? 
Better  take  little  Tom.  I  want  to  find  a  good  home 
for  him." 

"No.  Aunt  Martha  has  a  cat  and  he  would  kill  a 
strange  kitten." 

Norman  yielded  the  point  rather  reluctantly.  He 
gave  Faith  an  exciting  drive  home,  behind  his  wild 
two-year  old,  and  when  he  had  let  her  out  at  the 
kitchen  door  of  the  manse  and  dumped  his  cargo  on 
the  back  veranda  he  drove  away  shouting, 

"It's  only  once  a  month — only  once  a  month,  mind !" 

Faith  went  up  to  bed,  feeling  a  little  dizzy  and 
breathless,  as  if  she  had  just  escaped  from  the  grasp 
of  a  genial  whirlwind.  She  was  happy  and  thankful. 
No  fear  now  that  they  would  have  to  leave  the  Glen 
and  the  graveyard  and  Rainbow  Valley.  But  she  fell 
asleep  troubled  by  a  disagreeable  subconsciousness  that 


TIT  FOR  TAT  181 

Dan  Reese  had  called  her  pig-girl  and  that,  having 
stumbled  on  such  a  congenial  epithet,  he  would  con- 
tinue to  call  her  so  whenever  opportunity  offered. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
A  DOUBLE  VICTORY 

NORMAN  DOUGLAS  came  to  church  the  first 
Sunday  in  November  and  made  all  the  sensa* 
tion  he  desired.     Mr.  Meredith  shook  hands  with  him 
absently  on  the  church  steps  and  hoped  dreamily  that 
Mrs.  Douglas  was  well. 

"She  wasn't  very  well  just  before  I  buried  her  ten 
years  ago,  but  I  reckon  she  has  better  health  now," 
boomed  Norman,  to  the  horror  and  amusement  of 
every  one  except  Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  absorbed  iri1 
wondering  if  he  had  made  the  last  head  of  his  sermon 
as  clear  as  he  might  have,  and  hadn't  the  least  idea 
what  Norman  had  said  to  him  or  he  to  Norman. 

Norman  intercepted  Faith  at  the  gate. 

"Kept  my  word,  you  see — kept  my  word,  Red  Rose. 
I'm  free  now  till  the  first  Sunday  in  December.  Fine 
sermon,  girl — fine  sermon.  Your  father  has  more  in 
his  head  than  he  carries  on  his  face.  But  he  contra- 
dicted himself  once — tell  him  he  contradicted  himself. 
And  tell  him  I  want  that  brimstone  sermon  in  Decem- 
ber. Great  way  to  wind  up  the  old  year — with  a  taste 
of  hell,  you  know.  And  what's  the  matter  with  a  nice 
tasty  discourse  on  heaven  for  New  Year's?  Though 
it  wouldn't  be  half  as  interesting  as  hell,  girl — not  half. 
Only  I'd  like  to  know  what  your  father  thinks  about 

182 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  183 

heaven — he  can  think — rarest  thing  in  the  world — a 
parson  who  can  think.  But  he  did  contradict  himself. 
Ha,  ha!  Here's  a  question  you  might  ask  him  some- 
time when  he's  awake,  girl.  'Can  God  make  a  stone 
so  big  He  couldn't  lift  it  Himself?'  Don't  forget  now. 
I  want  to  hear  his  opinion  of  it.  I've  stumped  many  a 
minister  with  that,  girl." 

Faith  was  glad  to  escape  him  and  run  home.  Dan 
Reese,  standing  among  the  crowd  of  boys  at  the  gate, 
looked  at  her  and  shaped  his  mouth  into  "pig-girl," 
but  dared  not  utter  it  aloud  just  there.  Next  day  in 
school  was  a  different  matter.  At  noon  recess  Faith 
encountered  Dan  in  the  little  spruce  plantation  behind 
the  school  and  Dan  shouted  once  more, 

"Pig-girl !    Pig-girl !    Rooster-girl!" 

Walter  Blythe  suddenly  rose  from  a  mossy  cushion 
behind  a  little  clump  of  firs  where  he  had  been  reading. 
He  was  very  pale,  but  his  eyes  blazed. 

"You  hold  your  tongue,  Dan  Reese !"  he  said. 

"Oh,  hello,  Miss  Walter,"  retorted  Dan,  not  at  all 
abashed.  He  vaulted  airily  to  the  top  of  the  rail  fence 
and  chanted  insultingly, 

"Cowardy,   cowardy-custard 
Stole  a  pot  of  mustard, 
Cowardy,  cowardy-custard  I" 

"You  are  a  coincidence!"  said  Walter  scornfully, 
turning  still  whiter.  He  had  only  a  very  hazy  idea 
what  a  coincidence  was,  but  Dan  had  none  at  all  and 
thought  it  must  be  something  peculiarly  opprobrious. 


184  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Yah !  Cowardy !"  he  yelled  again.  "Your  mother 
writes  lies — lies — lies!  And  Faith  Meredith  is  a  pig- 
girl — a — pig-girl — a  pig-girl!  And  she's  a  rooster- 
girl — a  rooster-girl — a  rooster-girl!  Yah!  Cowardy 
— cowardy — cust — " 

Dan  got  no  further.  Walter  had  hurled  himself 
across  the  intervening  space  and  knocked  Dan  off  the 
fence  backward  with  one  well-directed  blow.  Dan's 
sudden  inglorious  sprawl  was  greeted  with  a  burst  of 
laughter  and  a  clapping  of  hands  from  Faith.  Dan 
sprang  up,  purple  with  rage,  and  began  to  climb  the 
fence.  But  just  then  the  school  bell  rang  and  Dan 
knew  what  happened  to  boys  who  were  late  during 
Mr.  Hazard's  regime. 

"We'll  fight  this  out,"  he  howled.    "Cowardy!" 

"Any  time  you  like,"  said  Walter. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Walter,"  protested  Faith.  "Don't  fight 
him.  /  don't  mind  what  he  says — I  wouldn't  conde- 
scend to  mind  the  like  of  him." 

"He  insulted  you  and  he  insulted  my  mother,"  said 
Walter,  with  the  same  deadly  calm.  "To-night  after 
school,  Dan." 

"I've  got  to  go  right  home  from  school  to  pick  taters 
after  the  harrows,  dad  says,"  answered  Dan  sulkily. 
"But  to-morrow  night'll  do." 

"All  right — here  to-morrow  night,"  agreed  Walter. 

"And  I'll  smash  your  sissy-face  for  you,"  promised 
Dan. 

Walter  shuddered — not  so  much  from  fear  of  the 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  185 

threat  as  from  repulsion  over  the  ugliness  and  vul-r 
garity  of  it.  But  he  held  his  head  high  and  marched 
into  school.  Faith  followed  in  a  conflict  of  emotions. 
She  hated  to  think  of  Walter  fighting  that  little  sneak, 
but  oh,  he  had  been  splendid!  And  he  was  going  to 
fight  for  her — Faith  Meredith — to  punish  her  insulter ! 
Of  course  he  would  win — such  eyes  spelled  victory. 

Faith's  confidence  in  her  champion  had  dimmed  a 
little  by  evening,  however.  Walter  had  seemed  so  very 
quiet  and  dull  the  rest  of  the  day  in  school. 

"If  it  were  only  Jem,"  she  sighed  to  Una,  as  they 
sat  on  Hezekiah  Pollock's  tombstone  in  the  graveyard. 
"He  is  such  a  fighter— -he  could  finish  Dan  off  in  no 
time.  But  Walter  doesn't  know  much  about  fighting." 

"I'm  so  afraid  he'll  be  hurt,"  sighed  Una,  who  hated 
fighting  and  couldn't  understand  the  subtle,  secret 
exultation  she  divined  in  Faith. 

"He  oughtn't  to  be,"  said  Faith  uncomfortably. 
"He's  every  bit  as  big  as  Dan." 

"But  Dan's  so  much  older,"  said  Una.  "Why,  he's 
nearly  a  year  older." 

"Dan  hasn't  done  much  fighting  when  you  come  to 
count  up,"  said  Faith.  "I  believe  he's  really  a  coward. 
He  didn't  think  Walter  would  fight,  or  he  wouldn't 
have  called  names  before  him.  Oh,  if  you  could  just 
have  seen  Walter's  face  when  he  looked  at  him,  Una? 
It  made  me  shiver — with  a  nice  shiver.  He  looked 
just  like  Sir  Galahad  in  that  poem  father  read  us  on 
Saturday." 


186  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"I  hate  the  thought  of  them  fighting  and  I  wish  it 
could  be  stopped,"  said  Una. 

"Oh,  it's  got  to  go  on  now,"  cried  Faith.  "It's  a 
matter  of  honor.  Don't  you  dare  tell  any  one,  Una. 
If  you  do  I'll  never  tell  you  secrets  again !" 

"I  won't  tell,"  agreed  Una.  "But  I  won't  stay 
to-morrow  to  watch  the  fight.  I'm  coming  right 
home." 

"Oh,  all  right.  /  have  to  be  there — it  would  be  mean 
not  to,  when  Walter  is  fighting  for  me.  I'm  going  to 
tie  my  colours  on  his  arm — that's  the  thing  to  do  when 
he's  my  knight.  How  lucky  Mrs.  Blythe  gave  me  that 
pretty  blue  hair  ribbon  for  my  birthday!  I've  only 
worn  it  twice  so  it  will  be  almost  new.  But  I  wish  I 
was  sure  Walter  would  win.  It  will  be  so — so  humiliat- 
ing if  he  doesn't." 

Faith  would  have  been  yet  more  dubious  if  she 
could  have  seen  her  champion  just  then.  Walter  had 
gone  home  from  school  with  all  his  righteous  anger 
at  a  low  ebb  and  a  very  nasty  feeling  in  its  place.  He 
had  to  fight  Dan  Reese  the  next  night — and  he  didn't 
want  to — he  hated  the  thought  of  it.  And  he  kept 
thinking  of  it  all  the  time.  Not  for  a  minute  could  he 
get  away  from  the  thought.  Would  it  hurt  much? 
He  was  terribly  afraid  that  it  would  hurt.  And  woulc^ 
he  be  defeated  and  shamed? 

He  could  not  eat  any  supper  worth  speaking  of. 
Susan  had  made  a  big  batch  of  his  favourite  monkey- 
faces,  but  he  could  choke  only  one  down.  Jem  ate 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  187 

four.  Walter  wondered  how  he  could.  How  could 
anybody  eat?  And  how  could  they  all  talk  gaily  as 
they  were  doing  ?  There  was  mother,  with  her  shining 
eyes  and  pink  cheeks.  She  didn't  know  her  son  had  to 
fight  next  day.  Would  she  be  so  gay  if  she  knew, 
Walter  wondered  darkly.  Jem  had  taken  Susan's 
picture  with  his  new  camera  and  the  result  was  passed 
around  the  table  and  Susan  was  terribly  indignant 
over  it. 

"I  am  no  beauty,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  and  well  I  know  it, 
and  have  always  known  it,"  she  said  in  an  aggrieved 
tone,  "but  that  I  am  as  ugly  as  that  picture  makes  me 
out  I  will  never,  no,  never  believe." 

Jem  laughed  over  this  and  Anne  laughed  again  with 
him.  Walter  couldn't  endure  it.  He  got  up  and  fled 
to  his  room. 

"That  child  has  got  something  on  his  mind,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear,"  said  Susan.  "He  has  et  next  to  nothing. 
Do  you  suppose  he  is  plotting  another  poem  ?" 

Poor  Walter  was  very  far  removed  in  spirit  from 
the  starry  realms  of  poesy  just  then.  He  propped  his 
elbow  on  his  open  window  sill  and  leaned  his  head 
drearily  on  his  hands. 

"Come  on  down  to  the  shore,  Walter,"  cried  Jem, 
bursting  in.  "The  boys  are  going  to  burn  the  sand- 
hill grass  to-night.  Father  says  we  can  go.  Come  on." 

At  any  other  time  Walter  would  have  been  de- 
lighted. He  gloried  in  the  burning  of  the  sand-hill 
grass.  But  now  he  flatly  refused  to  go,  and  no  argu- 


i88  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

ments  or  entreaties  could  move  him.  Disappointed 
Jem,  who  did  not  care  for  the  long  dark  walk  to  Four 
Winds  Point  alone,  retreated  to  his  museum  in  the 
garret  and  buried  himself  in  a  book.  He  soon  forgot 
his  disappointment,  revelling  with  the  heroes  of  old 
romance,  and  pausing  occasionally  to  picture  himself 
a  famous  general,  leading  his  troops  to  victory  on  some 
great  battlefield. 

Walter  sat  at  his  window  until  bedtime.  Di  crept 
in,  hoping  to  be  told  what  was  wrong,  but  Walter  could 
not  talk  of  it,  even  to  Di.  Talking  of  it  seemed  to 
give  it  a  reality  from  which  he  shrank.  It  was  torture 
enough  to  think  of  it.  The  crisp,  withered  leaves 
rustled  on  the  maple  trees  outside  his  window.  The 
glow  of  rose  and  flame  had  died  out  of  the  hollow, 
silvery  sky,  and  the  full  moon  was  rising  gloriously 
over  Rainbow  Valley.  Afar  off,  a  ruddy  wood  fire 
was  painting  a  page  of  glory  on  the  horizon  beyond 
the  hills.  It  was  a  sharp,  clear  evening  when  far-away 
sounds  were  heard  distinctly.  A  fox  was  barking 
across  the  pond;  an  engine  was  puffing  down  at  the 
Glen  station;  a  blue  jay  was  screaming  madly  in  the 
maple  grove;  there  was  laughter  over  on  the  manse 
lawn.  How  could  people  laugh?  How  could  foxes 
and  blue  jays  and  engines  behave  as  if  nothing  were 
going  to  happen  on  the  morrow  ? 

"Oh,  I  wish  it  was  over,"  groaned  Walter. 

He  slept  very  little  that  night  and  had  hard  work 
choking  down  his  porridge  in  the  morning.  Susan  was 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  189 

rather  lavish  in  her  platefuls.  Mr.  Hazard  found  him 
an  unsatisfactory  pupil  that  day.  Faith  Meredith's  wits 
seemed  to  be  wool-gathering,  too.  Dan  Reese  kept 
drawing  surreptitious  pictures  of  girls,  with  pig  or 
rooster  heads,  on  his  slate  and  holding  them  up  for  all 
to  see.  The  news  of  the  coming  battle  had  leaked  out 
and  most  of  the  boys  and  many  of  the  girls  were  in 
tta  spruce  plantation  when  Dan  and  Walter  sought  it 
after  school.  Una  had  gone  home,  but  Faith  was 
there,  having  tied  her  blue  ribbon  around  Walter's 
arm.  Walter  was  thankful  that  neither  Jem  nor  Di 
nor  Nan  were  among  the  crowd  of  spectators.  Some- 
how they  had  not  heard  of  what  was  in  the  wind  and 
had  gone  home,  too.  Walter  faced  Dan  quite  undaunt- 
edly now.  At  the  last  moment  all  his  fear  had  van- 
ished, but  he  still  felt  disgust  at  the  idea  of  fighting. 
Dan,  it  was  noted,  was  really  paler  under  his  freckles 
than  Walter  was.  One  of  the  older  boys  gave  the 
word  and  Dan  struck  Walter  in  the  face. 

Walter  reeled  a  little.  The  pain  of  the  blow  tingled 
through  all  his  sensitive  frame  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  felt  pain  no  longer.  Something,  such  as  he  had 
never  experienced  before,  seemed  to  roll  over  him  like 
a  flood.  His  face  flushed  crimson,  his  eyes  burned  like 
flame.  The  scholars  of  Glen  St.  Mary  school  had 
never  dreamed  that  "Miss  Walter"  could  look  like  that. 
He  hurled  himself  forward  and  closed  with  Dan  like 
a  young  wildcat. 

There  were  no  particular  rules  in  the  fights  of  the 


190  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Glen  school  boys.  It  was  catch-as-catch  can,  and  get 
your  blows  in  anyhow.  Walter  fought  with  a  savage 
fury  and  a  joy  in  the  struggle  against  which  Dan  could 
not  hold  his  ground.  It  was  all  over  very  speedily. 
Walter  had  no  clear  consciousness  of  what  he  was 
doing  until  suddenly  the  red  mist  cleared  from  his 
sight  and  he  found  himself  kneeling  on  the  body  of  the 
prostrate  Dan  whose  nose — oh,  horror ! — was  spouting 
blood. 

"Have  you  had  enough  ?"  demanded  Walter  through 
his  clenched  teeth. 

Dan  sulkily  admitted  that  he  had. 

"My  mother  doesn't  write  lies  ?" 

"No." 

"Faith  Meredith  isn't  a  pig-girl?" 

"No." 

"Nor  a  rooster-girl?" 

"No." 

"And  I'm  not  a  coward?" 

"No." 

Walter  had  intended  to  ask,  "And  you  are  a  liar?" 
but  pity  intervened  and  he  did  not  humiliate  Dan  fur- 
ther. Besides,  that  blood  was  so  horrible. 

"You  can  go,  then,"  he  said  contemptuously. 

There  was  a  loud  clapping  from  the  boys  who  were 
perched  on  the  rail  fence,  but  some  of  the  girls  were 
crying.  They  were  frightened.  They  had  seen  school- 
boy fights  before,  but  nothing  like  Walter  as  he  had 
grappled  with  Dan.  There  had  been  something  terrify- 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  191 

ing  about  him.  They  thought  he  would  kill  Dan, 
Now  that  all  was  over  they  sobbed  hysterically — ex- 
cept Faith,  who  still  stood  tense  and  crimson  cheeked. 

Walter  did  not  stay  for  any  conqueror's  meed.  He 
sprang  over  the  fence  and  rushed  down  the  spruce  hill 
to  Rainbow  Valley.  He  felt  none  of  the  victor's  joy, 
but  he  felt  a  certain  calm  satisfaction  in  duty  done  and 
honour  avenged — mingled  with  a  sickish  qualm  when 
he  thought  of  Dan's  gory  nose.  It  had  been  so  ugly, 
and  Walter  hated  ugliness. 

Also,  he  began  to  realize  that  he  himself  was  some- 
what sore  and  battered  up.  His  lip  was  cut  and 
swollen  and  one  eye  felt  very  strange.  In  Rainbow 
Valley  he  encountered  Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  coming 
home  from  an  afternoon  call  on  the  Miss  Wests.  That 
reverend  gentleman  looked  gravely  at  him. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  been  fighting,  Wal- 
ter?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Walter,  expecting  a  scolding. 

"What  was  it  about?" 

"Dan  Reese  said  my  mother  wrote  lies  and  that 
Faith  was  a  pig-girl,"  answered  Walter  bluntly. 

"Oh — h!  Then  you  were  certainly  justified,  Wal- 
ter." 

"Do  you  think  it's  right  to  fight,  sir?"  asked  Walter 
curiously. 

"Not  always — and  not  often — but  sometimes — yes, 
sometimes,"  said  John  Meredith.  "When  womenkind 
are  insulted  for  instance — as  in  your  case.  My  motto, 


192  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Walter,  is,  don't  fight  till  you're  sure  you  ought  to,  and 
then  put  every  ounce  of  you  into  it.  In  spite  of  sundry 
discolorations  I  infer  that  you  came  off  best." 

"Yes.    I  made  him  take  it  all  back." 

"Very  good — very  good,  indeed.  I  didn't  think 
you  were  such  a  fighter,  Walter." 

"I  never  fought  before — and  I  didn't  want  to  right 
up  to  the  last — and  then,"  said  Walter,  determined  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  "I  liked  it  while  I  was  at  it." 

The  Rev.  John's  eyes  twinkled. 

"You  were — a  little  frightened — at  first  ?" 

"I  was  a  whole  lot  frightened,"  said  honest  Walter. 
"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  frightened  any  more,  sir. 
Being  frightened  of  things  is  worse  than  the  things 
themselves.  I'm  going  to  ask  father  to  take  me  over 
to  Lowbridge  to-morrow  to  get  my  tooth  out." 

"Right  again.  'Fear  is  more  pain  than  is  the  pain 
it  fears.'  Do  you  know  who  wrote  that,  Walter?  It 
was  Shakespeare.  Was  there  any  feeling  or  emotion 
or  experience  of  the  human  heart  that  that  wonderful 
man  did  not  know?  When  you  go  home  tell  your 
mother  I  am  proud  of  you." 

Walter  did  not  tell  her  that,  however;  but  he  told 
her  all  the  rest,  and  she  sympathized  with  him  and 
told  him  she  was  glad  he  had  stood  up  for  her  and 
Faith,  and  she  anointed  his  sore  spots  and  rubbed 
cologne  on  his  aching  head. 

"Are  all  mothers  as  nice  as  you?"  asked  Walter, 
hugging  her.  "You're  worth  standing  up  for." 


A  DOUBLE  VICTORY  193 

Miss  Cornelia  and  Susan  were  in  the  living  room 
when  Anne  came  downstairs,  and  listened  to  the  story 
with  much  enjoyment.  Susan  in  particular  was  highly 
gratified. 

"I  am  real  glad  to  hear  he  has  had  a  good  fight,  Mrs. 
Dr.  dear.  Perhaps  it  may  knock  that  poetry  nonsense 
out  of  him.  And  I  never,  no,  never  could  bear  that 
little  viper  of  a  Dan  Reese.  Will  you  not  sit  nearer 
to  the  fire,  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott?  These  November 
evenings  are  very  chilly." 

"Thank  you,  Susan,  I'm  not  cold.  I  called  at  the 
manse  before  I  came  here  and  got  quite  warm — though 
I  had  to  go  to  the  kitchen  to  do  it,  for  there  was  no 
fire  anywhere  else.  The  kitchen  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  stirred  up  with  a  stick,  believe  me.  Mr.  Meredith 
wasn't  home.  I  couldn't  find  out  where  he  was,  but 
I  have  an  idea  he  was  up  at  the  Wests'.  Do  you  know, 
Anne  dearie,  they  say  he  has  been  going  there  fre- 
quently all  the  fall  and  people  are  beginning  to  think 
he  is  going  to  see  Rosemary." 

"He  would  get  a  very  charming  wife  if  he  married 
Rosemary,"  said  Anne,  piling  driftwood  on  the  fire. 
"She  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  girls  I've  ever 
known — truly  one  of  the  race  of  Joseph." 

"Ye — s — only  she  is  an  Episcopalian,"  said  Miss 
Cornelia  doubtfully.  "Of  course,  that  is  better  than  if 
she  was  a  Methodist — but  I  do  think  Mr.  Meredith 
could  find  a  good  enough  wife  in  his  own  denomina- 
tion. However,  very  likely  there  is  nothing  in  it.  It's 


194  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

only  a  month  ago  that  I  said  to  him,  'You  ought  to 
marry  again,  Mr.  Meredith.'  He  looked  as  shocked 
as  if  I  had  suggested  something  improper.  'My  wife 
is  in  her  grave,  Mrs.  Elliott,'  he  said,  in  that  gentle, 
saintly  way  of  his.  'I  supposed  so,'  I  said,  'or  I 
wouldn't  be  advising  you  to  marry  again.'  Then  he 
looked  more  shocked  than  ever.  So  I  doubt  if  there 
is  much  in  this  Rosemary  story.  If  a  single  minister 
calls  twice  at  a  house  where  there  is  a  single  woman 
all  the  gossips  have  it  he  is  courting  her." 

"It  seems  to  me — if  I  may  presume  to  say  so — that 
Mr.  Meredith  is  too  shy  to  go  courting  a  second  wife," 
said  Susan  solemnly. 

"He  isn't  shy,  believe  me,"  retorted  Miss  Cornelia. 
"Absent-minded, — yes — but  shy,  no.  And  for  all  he 
is  so  abstracted  and  dreamy  he  has  a  very  good  opinion 
of  himself,  man-like,  and  when  he  is  really  awake  he 
wouldn't  think  it  much  of  a  chore  to  ask  any  woman 
to  have  him.  No,  the  trouble  is,  he's  deluding  himself 
into  believing  that  his  heart  is  buried,  while  all  the 
time  it's  beating  away  inside  of  him  just  like  anybody 
else's.  He  may  have  a  notion  of  Rosemary  West  and 
he  may  not.  If  he  has,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
She  is  a  sweet  girl  and  a  fine  housekeeper,  and  would 
make  a  good  mother  for  those  poor,  neglected  children. 
And,"  concluded  Miss  Cornelia  resignedly,  "my  own 
grandmother  was  an  Episcopalian." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
MARY  BRINGS  EVIL  TIDINGS 

MARY  VANCE,  whom  Mrs.  Elliott  had  sent  up 
to  the  manse  on  an  errand,  came  tripping  down 
Rainbow  Valley  on  her  way  to  Ingleside  where  she 
was  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  Nan  and  Di  as  a 
Saturday  treat.  Nan  and  Di  had  been  picking  spruce 
gum  with  Faith  and  Una  in  the  manse  woods  and  the 
four  of  them  were  now  sitting  on  a  fallen  pine  by  the 
brook,  all,  it  must  be  admitted,  chewing  rather  vigor- 
ously. The  Ingleside  twins  were  not  allowed  to  chew 
spruce  gum  anywhere  but  in  the  seclusion  of  Rainbow 
Valley,  but  Faith  and  Una  were  quite  unrestricted  by 
such  rules  of  etiquette  and  cheerfully  chewed  it  every- 
where, at  home  and  abroad,  to  the  very  proper  horror 
of  the  Glen.  Faith  had  been  seen  chewing  it  in  church 
one  day;  but  Jerry  had  realized  the  enormity  of  that, 
and  had  given  her  such  an  older-brotherly  scolding 
that  she  never  did  it  again. 

"I  was  so  hungry  I  just  felt  as  if  I  had  to  chew 
something,"  she  protested.  "You  know  well  enough 
what  breakfast  was  like,  Jerry  Meredith.  I  couldn't 
eat  scorched  porridge  and  my  stomach  just  felt  so 
queer  and  empty.  The  gum  helped  a  lot — and  I  didn't 

i95 


196  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

chew  very  hard.  I  didn't  make  any  noise  and  I  never 
cracked  the  gum  once." 

"You  mustn't  chew  gum  in  church,  anyhow,"  in- 
sisted Jerry.  "Don't  let  me  catch  you  at  it  again." 

"You  chewed  yourself  in  prayer  meeting  last  week," 
cried  Faith. 

"That's  different,"  said  Jerry  loftily.  "Prayer  meet- 
ing isn't  on  Sunday.  Besides,  I  sat  away  at  the  back 
in  a  dark  seat  and  nobody  saw  me.  You  were  sitting 
right  up  in  front  where  every  one  saw  you.  And  I 
took  the  gum  out  of  my  mouth  for  the  last  hymn  and 
stuck  it  on  the  back  of  the  pew  in  front  of  me.  Then 
I  came  away  and  forgot  it.  I  went  back  to  get  it  next 
morning,  but  it  was  gone.  I  suppose  Rod  Warren 
swiped  it.  And  it  was  a  dandy  chew." 

Mary  Vance  walked  down  the  Valley  with  her  head 
held  high.  She  had  on  a  new  blue  velvet  cap  with  a 
scarlet  rosette  in  it,  a  coat  of  navy  blue  cloth  and  a 
little  squirrel-fur  muff.  She  was  very  conscious  of  her 
new  clothes  and  very  well  pleased  with  herself.  Her 
hair  was  elaborately  crimped,  her  face  was  quite 
plump,  her  cheeks  rosy,  her  white  eyes  shining.  She 
did  not  look  much  like  the  forlorn  and  ragged  waif 
the  Merediths  had  found  in  the  old  Taylor  barn.  Una 
tried  not  to  feel  envious.  Here  was  Mary  with  a  new 
velvet  cap,  but  she  and  Faith  had  to  wear  their  shabby 
old  gray  tarns  again  this  winter.  Nobody  ever  thought 
of  getting  them  new  ones  and  they  were  afraid  to  ask 


MARY  BRINGS  EVIL  TIDINGS       197 

their  father  for  them  for  fear  that  he  might  be  short 
of  money  and  then  he  would  feel  badly.  Mary  had 
told  them  once  that  ministers  were  always  short  of 
money,  and  found  it  "awful  hard"  to  make  ends  meet. 
Since  then  Faith  and  Una  would  have  gone  in  rags 
rather  than  ask  their  father  for  anything  if  they  could 
help  it.  They  did  not  worry  a  great  deal  over  their 
shabbiness ;  but  it  was  rather  trying  to  see  Mary  Vance 
coming  out  in  such  style  and  putting  on  such  airs  about 
it,  too.  The  new  squirrel  muff  was  really  the  last 
straw.  Neither  Faith  nor  Una  had  ever  had  a  muff, 
counting  themselves  lucky  if  they  could  compass  mit- 
tens without  holes  in  them.  Aunt  Martha  could  not 
see  to  darn  holes  and  though  Una  tried  to,  she  made 
sad  cobbling.  Somehow,  they  could  not  make  their 
greeting  of  Mary  very  cordial.  But  Mary  did  not. 
mind  or  notice  that ;  she  was  not  overly  sensitive.  She 
vaulted  lightly  to  a  seat  on  the  pine  tree,  and  laid  the 
offending  muff  on  a  bough.  Una  saw  that  it  was 
lined  with  shirred  red  satin  and  had  red  tassels.  She 
looked  down  at  her  own  rather  purple,  chapped,  little 
hands  and  wondered  if  she  would  ever,  ever  be  able  to 
put  them  into  a  muff  like  that. 

"Give  us  a  chew,"  said  Mary  companionably.  Nan, 
Di  and  Faith  all  produced  an  amber-hued  knot  or  two 
from  their  pockets  and  passed  them  to  Mary.  Una  sat 
very  still.  She  had  four  lovely  big  knots  in  the  pocket 
of  her  tight,  thread-bare  little  jacket,  but  she  wasn't 


198  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

going  to  give  one  of  them  to  Mary  Vance — not  one. 
Let  Mary  pick  her  own  gum!  People  with  squirrel 
muffs  needn't  expect  to  get  everything  in  the  world. 

"Great  day,  isn't  it*?"  said  Mary,  swinging  her  legs, 
the  better,  perhaps,  to  display  new  boots  with  very 
smart  cloth  tops.  Una  tucked  her  feet  under  her. 
There  was  a  hole  in  the  toe  of  one  of  her  boots  and 
both  laces  were  much  knotted.  But  they  were  the  best 
she  had.  Oh,  this  Mary  Vance!  Why  hadn't  they 
left  her  in  the  old  barn? 

Una  never  felt  badly  because  the  Ingleside  twins 
were  better  dressed  than  she  and  Faith  were.  They 
wore  their  pretty  clothes  with  careless  grace  and  never 
seemed  to  think  about  them  at  all.  Somehow,  they  did 
not  make  other  people  feel  shabby.  But  when  Mary 
Vance  was  dressed  up  she  seemed  fairly  to  exude 
clothes — to  walk  in  an  atmosphere  of  clothes — to  make 
everybody  else  feel  and  think  clothes.  Una,  as  she  sat 
there  in  the  honey-tinted  sunshine  of  the  gracious  De- 
cember afternoon,  was  acutely  and  miserably  conscious 
of  everything  she  had  on — the  faded  tarn,  which  was 
yet  her  best,  the  skimpy  jacket  she  had  worn  for  three 
winters,  the  holes  in  her  skirt  and  her  boots,  the  shiver- 
ing insufficiency  of  her  poor  little  undergarments.  Of 
course,  Mary  was  going  out  for  a  visit  and  she  was 
not  But  even  if  she  had  been  she  had  nothing  better 
to  put  on  and  in  this  lay  the  sting. 

"Say,  this  is  great  gum.  Listen  to  me  cracking  it. 
There  ain't  any  gum  spruces  down  at  Four  Winds," 


MARY  BRINGS  EVIL  TIDINGS       199 

said  Mary.  "Sometimes  I  just  hanker  after  a  chew. 
Mrs.  Elliott  won't  let  me  chew  gum  if  she  sees  me. 
She  says  it  ain't  lady-like.  This  lady-business  puzzles 
me.  I  can't  get  on  to  all  its  kinks.  Say,  Una,  what's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  Cat  got  your  tongue  ?" 

"No,"  said  Una,  who  could  not  drag  her  fascinated 
eyes  from  that  squirrel  muff.  Mary  leaned  past  her, 
picked  it  up  and  thrust  it  into  Una's  hands. 

"Stick  your  paws  in  that  for  a  while,"  she  ordered. 
""They  look  sorter  pinched.  Ain't  that  a  dandy  muff? 
Mrs.  Elliott  give  it  to  me  last  week  for  a  birthday 
present.  I'm  to  get  the  collar  at  Christmas.  I  heard 
her  telling  Mr.  Elliott  that." 

"Mrs.  Elliott  is  very  good  to  you,"  said  Faith. 

"You  bet  she  is.  And  I'm  good  to  her,  too,"  re- 
torted Mary.  "  I  work  like  a  nigger  to  make  it  easy 
for  her  and  have  everything  just  as  she  likes  it.  We 
was  made  for  each  other.  'Tisn't  every  one  could  get 
along  with  her  as  well  as  I  do.  She's  pizen  neat,  but 
so  am  I,  and  so  we  agree  fine." 

"I  told  you  she  would  never  whip  you." 

""So  you  did.  She's  never  tried  to  lay  a  finger  on 
me  and  I  ain't  never  told  a  lie  to  her — not  one,  true's 
you  live.  She  combs  me  down  with  her  tongue  some- 
times, though,  but  that  just  slips  off  me  like  water  off 
a  duck's  (back.  Say,  Una,  why  didn't  you  hang  on  to 
the  muff?" 

Una  had  put  it  back  on  the  bough. 

""My  hands  aren't  cold,  thank  you,"  she  said  stiffly. 


200  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Well,  if  you're  satisfied,  7  am.  Say,  old  Kitty  Alec 
has  come  back  to  church  as  meek  as  Moses  and  nobody 
knows  why.  But  everybody  is  saying  it  was  Faith 
brought  Norman  Douglas  out.  His  housekeeper  says 
you  went  there  and  gave  him  an  awful  tongue-lashing. 
Did  you?" 

"I  went  and  asked  him  to  come  to  church,"  said 
Faith  uncomfortably. 

"F£.ncy  your  spunk!"  said  Mary  admiringly.  "I 
wouldn't  have  dared  do  that  and  I'm  not  so  slow.  Mrs. 
Wilson  says  the  two  of  you  jawed  something  scandal- 
ous, but  you  come  off  best  and  then  he  just  turned 
round  and  like  to  eat  you  up.  Say,  is  your  father 
going  to  preach  here  to-morrow  ?" 

"No.  He's  going  to  exchange  with  Mr.  Perry  from 
Charlottetown.  Father  went  to  town  this  morning 
and  Mr.  Perry  is  coming  out  to-night." 

"I  thought  there  was  something  in  the  wind,  though 
old  Martha  wouldn't  give  me  any  satisfaction.  But  I 
felt  sure  she  wouldn't  have  been  killing  that  rooster 
for  nothing." 

"What  rooster?  What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Faith, 
turning  pale. 

"/  don't  know  what  rooster.  I  didn't  see  it.  When, 
she  took  the  butter  Mrs.  Elliott  sent  up  she  said  she'd 
been  out  to  the  barn  killing  a  rooster  for  dinner  to- 
morrow." 

Faith  sprang  down  from  the  pine. 


MARY  BRINGS  EVIL  TIDINGS      201 

"It's  Adam — we  have  no  other  rooster — she  has 
killed  Adam." 

"Now,  don't  fly  off  the  handle.  Martha  said  the 
butcher  at  the  Glen  had  no  meat  this  week  and  she  had 
to  have  something  and  the  hens  were  all  laying  and  too 
poor." 

"If  she  has  killed  Adam — "  Faith  began  to  run  up 
the  hill. 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"She'll  go  crazy  now.  She  was  so  fond  of  that 
Adarn.  He  ought  to  have  been  in  the  pot  long  ago — 
he'll  be  as  tough  as  sole  leather.  But  /  wouldn't  like 
to  be  in  Martha's  shoes.  Faith's  just  white  with  rage. 
Una,  you'd  better  go  after  her  and  try  to  peacify  her." 

Mary  had  gone  a  few  steps  with  the  Blythe  girls 
when  Una  suddenly  turned  and  ran  after  her. 

"Here's  some  gum  for  you,  Mary,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  repentant  catch  in  her  voice,  thrusting  all  her  four 
knots  into  Mary's  hands,  "and  I'm  glad  you  have  such 
a  pretty  muff." 

"Why,  thanks,"  said  Mary,  rather  taken  by  surprise. 
To  the  Blythe  girls,  after  Una  had  gone,  she  said, 
"Ain't  she  a  queer  little  mite?  But  I've  always  said 
she  had  a  good  heart." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
POOR  ADAM! 

WHEN  Una  got  home  Faith  was  lying  face 
downwards  on  her  bed,  utterly  refusing  to  be 
comforted.  Aunt  Martha  had  killed  Adam.  He  was 
reposing  on  a  platter  in  the  pantry  that  very  minute, 
trussed  and  dressed,  encircled  by  his  liver  and  heart 
and  gizzard.  Aunt  Martha  heeded  Faith's  passion  of 
grief  and  anger  not  a  whit. 

"We  had  to  have  something  for  the  strange  min- 
ister's dinner,"  she  said.  "You're  too  big  a  girl  to 
make  such  a  fuss  over  an  old  rooster.  You  knew  he'd 
have  to  be  killed  sometime." 

"I'll  tell  father  when  he  comes  home  what  you've 
done,"  sobbed  Faith. 

"Don't  you  go  bothering  your  poor  father.  He  has 
troubles  enough.  And  7'm  housekeeper  here." 

"Adam  was  mine — Mrs.  Johnson  gave  him  to  me. 
You  had  no  business  to  touch  him,"  stormed  Faith. 

"Don't  you  get  sassy  now.,  The  rooster's  killed 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  ain't  going  to  set  no  strange 
minister  down  to  a  dinner  of  cold  b'iled  mutton.  I 
was  brought  up  to  know  better  than  that,  if  I  have 
come  down  in  the  world." 

Faith  would  not  go  down  to  supper  that  night  and 

202 


POOR  ADAM!  203 

she  would  not  go  to  church  the  next  morning.  But 
at  dinner  time  she  went  to  the  table,  her  eyes  swollen 
with  crying,  her  face  sullen. 

The  Rev.  James  Perry  was  a  sleek,  rubicund  man, 
with  a  bristling  white  moustache,  bushy  white  eye- 
brows, and  a  shining  bald  head.  He  was  certainly  not 
handsome  and  he  was  a  very  tiresome,  pompous  sort 
of  person.  But  if  he  had  looked  like  the  Archangel 
Michael  and  talked  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  angels 
Faith  would  still  have  utterly  detested  him.  He  carved 
Adam  up  dexterously,  showing  off  his  plump  white 
hands  and  very  handsome  diamond  ring.  Also,  he 
made  jovial  remarks  all  through  the  performance. 
Jerry  and  Carl  giggled,  and  even  Una  smiled  wanly, 
because  she  thought  politeness  demanded  it.  But  Faith 
only  scowled  darkly.  The  Rev.  James  thought  her 
manners  shockingly  bad.  Once,  when  he  was  deliver- 
ing himself  of  an  unctuous  remark  to  Jerry,  Faith 
broke  in  rudely  with  a  flat  contradiction.  The  Rev. 
James  drew  his  bushy  eyebrows  together  at  her. 

"Little  girls  should  not  interrupt,"  he  said,  "and 
they  should  not  contradict  people  who  know  far  more 
than  they  do." 

This  put  Faith  in  a  worse  temper  than  ever.  To  be 
called  "little  girl"  as  if  she  were  no  bigger  than  chubby 
Rilla  Blythe  over  at  Ingleside!  It  was  insufferable. 
And  how  that  abominable  Mr.  Perry  did  eat!  He 
even  picked  poor  Adam's  bones.  Neither  Faith  nor 
Una  would  touch  a  mouthful,  and  looked  upon  the 


204  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

boys  as  little  better  than  cannibals.  Faith  felt  that  if 
that  awful  repast  did  not  soon  come  to  an  end  she 
would  wind  it  up  by  throwing  something  at  Mr. 
Perry's  gleaming  head.  Fortunately,  Mr.  Perry 
found  Aunt  Martha's  leathery  apple  pie  too  much  even 
for  his  powers  of  mastication  and  the  meal  came  to  an 
end,  after  a  long  grace  in  which  Mr.  Perry  offered  up 
devout  thanks  for  the  food  which  a  kind  and  beneficent 
Providence  had  provided  for  sustenance  and  tem- 
perate pleasure. 

"God  hadn't  a  single  thing  to  do  with  providing 
Adam  for  you,"  muttered  Faith  rebelliously  under  her 
breath. 

The  boys  gladly  made  their  escape  to  outdoors,  Una 
went  to  help  Aunt  Martha  with  the  dishes — though 
that  rather  grumpy  old  dame  never  welcomed  her  timid 
assistance — and  Faith  betook  herself  to  the  study 
where  a  cheerful  wood  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate. 
She  thought  she  would  thereby  escape  from  the  hated 
Mr.  Perry,  who  had  announced  his  intention  of  taking 
a  nap  in  his  room  during  the  afternoon.  But  scarcely 
had  Faith  settled  herself  in  a  corner,  with  a  book,  when 
he  walked  in  and,  standing  before  the  fire,  proceeded 
to  survey  the  disorderly  study  with  an  air  of  disap- 
proval. 

"You  father's  books  seem  to  be  in  somewhat  de- 
plorable confusion,  my  little  girl,"  he  said  severely. 

Faith  darkled  in  her  corner  and  said  not  a  word. 
She  would  not  talk  to  this — this  creature. 


POOR  ADAM!  205 

"You  should  try  to  put  them  in  order,"  Mr.  Perry 
went  on,  playing  with  his  'handsome  watch  chain  and 
smiling  patronizingly  on  Faith.  "You  are  quite  old 
enough  to  attend  to  such  duties.  My  little  daughter  at 
home  is  only  ten  and  she  is  already  an  excellent  little 
housekeeper  and  the  greatest  help  and  comfort  to  her 
mother.  She  is  a  very  sweet  child.  I  wish  you  had 
the  privilege  of  her  acquaintance.  She  could  help  you 
in  many  ways.  Of  course,  you  have  not  had  the  inesti- 
mable privilege  of  a  good  mother's  care  and  training. 
A  sad  lack — a  very  sad  lack.  I  have  spoken  more  than 
once  to  your  father  in  this  connection  and  pointed  out 
his  duty  to  him  faithfully,  but  so  far  with  no  effect. 
I  trust  he  may  awaken  to  a  realization  of  his  responsi- 
bility before  it  is  too  late.  In  the  meantime,  it  is  your 
duty  and  privilege  to  endeavour  to  take  your  sainted 
mother's  place.  You  might  exercise  a  great  influence 
over  your  brothers  and  your  little  sister — you  might 
be  a  true  mother  to  them.  I  fear  that  you  do  not  think 
of  these  things  as  you  should.  My  dear  child,  allow 
me  to  open  your  eyes  in  regard  to  them." 

Mr.  Perry's  oily,  complacent  voice  trickled  on.  He 
was  in  his  element.  Nothing  suited  him  better  than  to 
lay  down  the  law,  patronize  and  exhort.  He  had  no 
idea  of  stopping,  and  he  did  not  stop.  He  stood  before 
the  fire,  his  feet  planted  firmly  on  the  rug,  and  poured 
out  a  flood  of  pompous  platitudes.  Faith  heard  not 
a  word.  She  was  really  not  listening  to  him  at  all. 
But  she  was  watching  his  long  black  coat-tails  with 


2o6  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

impish  delight  growing  in  her  brown  eyes.  Mr.  Perry 
was  standing  very  near  the  fire.  His  coat-tails  began 
to  scorch — his  coat-tails  began  to  smoke.  He  still 
prosed  on,  wrapped  up  in  his  own  eloquence.  The 
coat-tails  smoked  worse.  A  tiny  spark  flew  up  from 
the  burning  wood  and  alighted  in  the  middle  of  one. 
It  clung  and  caught  and  spread  into  a  smouldering 
flame.  Faith  could  restrain  herself  no  longer  and 
broke  into  a  stifled  giggle. 

Mr.  Perry  stopped  short,  angered  over  this  imperti- 
nence. Suddenly  he  'became  conscious  that  a  reek 
of  burning  cloth  filled  the  room.  He  whirled  round 
and  saw  nothing.  Then  he  clapped  his  hands  to  his 
coat-tails  and  brought  them  around  in  front  of  him. 
There  was  already  quite  a  hole  in  one  of  them — and 
this  was  his  new  suit.  Faith  shook  with  helpless  laugh- 
ter over  his  pose  and  expression. 

"Did  you  see  my  coat-tails  burning?"  he  demanded 
angrily. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Faith  demurely. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  he  demanded,  glaring  at 
her. 

"You  said  it  wasn't  good  manners  to  interrupt,  sir," 
said  Faith,  more  demurely  still. 

"If — if  I  was  your  father,  I  would  give  you  a  spank- 
ing that  you  would  remember  all  your  life,  Miss,"  said 
a  very  angry  reverend  gentleman,  as  he  stalked  out 
of  the  study.  The  coat  of  Mr.  Meredith's  second  best 
suit  would  not  fit  Mr.  Perry,  so  he  had  to  go  to  the 


POOR  ADAM!  207 

evening  service  with  his  singed  coat-tail.  But  he  did 
not  walk  up  the  aisle  with  his  usual  consciousness  of 
the  honour  he  was  conferring  on  the  building.  He 
never  would  agree  to  an  exchange  of  pulpits  with  Mr. 
Meredith  again,  and  he  was  'barely  civil  to  the  latter 
when  they  met  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  station  the 
next  morning.  But  Faith  felt  a  certain  gloomy  satis- 
faction. Adam  was  partially  avenged. 


CHAPTER  XX 
FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND 

NEXT  day  in  school  was  a  hard  one  for  Faith. 
Mary  Vance  had  told  the  tale  of  Adam,  and  all 
the  scholars,  except  the  Blythes,  thought  it  quite  a  joke. 
The  girls  told  Faith,  between  giggles,  that  it  was  too 
bad,  and  the  boys  wrote  sardonic  notes  of  condolence 
to  her.  Poor  Faith  went  home  from  school  feeling 
her  very  soul  raw  and  smarting  within  her. 

"I'm  going  over  to  Ingleside  to  have  a  talk  with  Mrs. 
Blythe,"  she  sobbed.  "She  won't  laugh  at  me,  as 
everybody  else  does.  I've  just  got  to  talk  to  somebody 
who  understands  how  bad  I  feel." 

She  ran  down  through  Rainbow  Valley.  Enchant- 
ment had  been  at  work  the  night  before.  A  light  snow 
had  fallen  and  the  powdered  firs  were  dreaming  of  a 
spring  to  come  and  a  joy  to  be.  The  long  hill  beyond 
was  richly  purple  with  leafless  beeches.  The  rosy 
light  of  sunset  lay  over  the  world  like  a  pink  kiss.  Of 
all  the  airy,  fairy  places,  full  of  weird,  elfin  grace, 
Rainbow  Valley  that  winter  evening  was  the  most 
beautiful.  But  all  its  dreamlike  loveliness  was  lost  on 
poor,  sore-hearted  little  Faith. 

By  the  brook  she  came  suddenly  upon  Rosemary 
208 


FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND          209 

West,  who  was  sitting  on  the  old  pine  tree.  She  was 
on  her  way  home  from  Ingleside,  where  she  had  been 
giving  the  girls  their  music  lesson.  She  had  been 
lingering  in  Rainbow  Valley  quite  a  little  time,  look- 
ing across  its  white  beauty  and  roaming  some  by-ways 
of  dream.  Judging  from  the  expression  of  her  face, 
her  thoughts  were  pleasant  ones.  Perhaps  the  faint, 
occasional  tinkle  from  the  bells  on  the  Tree  Lovers 
brought  the  little  lurking  smile  to  her  lips.  Or  per- 
haps it  was  occasioned  by  the  consciousness  that  John 
Meredith  seldom  failed  to  spend  Monday  evening  in 
the  gray  house  on  the  white  wind-swept  hill. 

Into  Rosemary's  dreams  burst  Faith  Meredith  full 
of  rebellious  bitterness.  Faith  stopped  abruptly  when 
she  saw  Miss  West.  She  did  not  know  her  very  well 
— just  well  enough  to  speak  to  when  they  met.  And 
she  did  not  want  to  see  any  one  just  then — except  Mrs. 
Blythe.  She  knew  her  eyes  and  nose  were  red  and 
swollen  and  she  hated  to  have  a  stranger  know  she 
had  been  crying. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  West,"  she  said  uncomfort- 
.  ably. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Faith?"  asked  Rosemary 
gently. 

"Nothing,"  said  Faith  rather  shortly. 

"Oh !"  Rosemary  smiled.  "You  mean  nothing  that 
you  can  tell  to  outsiders,  don't  you?" 

Faith  looked  at  Miss  West  with  sudden  interest. 
Here  was  a  person  who  understood  things.  And  how 


210  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

pretty  she  was!  How  golden  her  hair  was  under  her 
plumy  hat !  How  pink  her  cheeks  were  over  her  velvet 
coat!  How  blue  and  companionable  her  eyes  were! 
Faith  felt  that  Miss  West  could  be  a  lovely  friend — if 
only  she  were  a  friend  instead  of  a  stranger ! 

"I — I'm  going  up  to  tell  Mrs.  Blythe,"  said  Faith. 
"She  always  understands — she  never  laughs  at  us.  I 
always  talk  things  over  with  her.  It  helps." 

"Dear  girlie,  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  that  Mrs. 
Blythe  isn't  home,"  said  Miss  West,  sympathetically. 
"She  went  to  Avonlea  to-day  and  isn't  coming  back 
till  the  last  of  the  week." 

Faith's  lip  quivered. 

"Then  I  might  as  well  go  home  again,"  she  said 
miserably. 

"I  suppose  so — unless  you  think  you  could  bring 
yourself  to  talk  it  over  with  me  instead,"  said  Miss 
Rosemary  gently.  "It  is  such  a  help  to  talk  things 
over.  /  know.  I  don't  suppose  I  can  be  as  good  at 
understanding  as  Mrs.  Blythe — but  I  promise  you  that 
I  won't  laugh." 

"You  wouldn't  laugh  outside,"  hesitated  Faith.  "But 
you  might — inside." 

"No,  I  wouldn't  laugh  inside,  either.  Why  should 
I?  Something  has  hurt  you — it  never  amuses  me  to 
see  anybody  hurt,  no  matter  what  hurts  them.  If  you 
feel  that  you'd  like  to  tell  me  what  has  hurt  you  I'll 
be  glad  to  listen.  But  if  you  think  you'd  rather  not — 
that's  all  right,  too,  dear." 


FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND          211 

Faith  took  another  long,  earnest  look  into  Miss 
West's  eyes.  They  were  very  serious — there  was  no 
laughter  in  them,  not  even  far,  far  back.  With  a  little 
sigh  she  sat  down  on  the  old  pine  beside  her  new  friend 
and  told  her  all  about  Adam  and  his  cruel  fate. 

Rosemary  did  not  laugh  or  feel  like  laughing.  She 
understood  and  sympathized — really,  she  was  almost 
as  good  as  Mrs.  Blythe — yes,  quite  as  good. 

"Mr.  Perry  is  a  minister,  but  he  should  have  been  a 
butcher"  said  Faith  bitterly.  "He  is  so  fond  of  carv- 
ing things  up.  He  enjoyed  cutting  poor  Adam  to 
pieces.  He  just  sliced  into  him  as  if  he  were  any  com- 
mon rooster." 

"Between  you  and  me,  Faith,  /  don't  like  Mr.  Perry 
very  well  myself,"  said  Rosemary,  laughing  a  little — 
but  at  Mr.  Perry,  not  at  Adam,  as  Faith  clearly  under- 
stood. "I  never  did  like  him.  I  went  to  school  with 
him — he  was  a  Glen  boy,  you  know — and  he  was  a 
most  detestable  little  prig  even  then.  Oh,  how  we  girls 
used  to  hate  holding  his  fat,  clammy  hands  in  the  ring- 
around  games.  But  we  must  remember,  dear,  that  he 
didn't  know  that  Adam  had  been  a  pet  of  yours.  He 
thought  he  was  just  a  common  rooster.  We  must  be 
just,  even  when  we  are  terribly  hurt." 

"I  suppose  so,"  admitted  Faith.  "But  why  does 
everybody  seem  to  think  it  funny  that  I  should  have 
loved  Adam  so  much,  Miss  West?  If  it  had  been  a 
horrid  old  cat  nobody  would  have  thought  it  queer. 
When  Lottie  Warren's  kitten  had  its  legs  cut  off  by  the 


212  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

binder  everybody  was  sorry  for  her.  She  cried  two 
days  in  school  and  nobody  laughed  at  her,  not  even 
Dan  Reese.  And  all  her  chums  went  to  the  kitten's 
funeral  and  helped  her  bury  it — only  they  couldn't 
bury  its  poor  little  paws  with  it,  because  they  couldn't 
find  them.  It  was  a  horrid  thing  to  have  happen,  of 
course,  but  I  don't  think  it  was  as  dreadful  as  seeing 
your  pet  eaten  up.  Yet  everybody  laughs  at  me." 

"I  think  it  is  because  the  name  'rooster'  seems  rather 
a  funny  one,"  said  Rosemary  gravely.  "There  is  some- 
thing in  it  that  is  comical.  Now,  'chicken'  is  different. 
It  doesn't  sound  so  funny  to  talk  of  loving  a  chicken." 

"Adam  was  the  dearest  little  chicken,  Miss  West. 
He  was  just  a  little  golden  ball.  He  would  run  up 
to  me  and  peck  out  of  my  hand.  And  he  was  hand- 
some when  he  grew  up,  too — white  as  snow,  with  such 
a  beautiful  curving  white  tail,  though  Mary  Vance 
said  it  was  too  short.  He  knew  his  name  and  always 
came  when  I  called  him — he  was  a  very  intelligent 
rooster.  And  Aunt  Martha  had  no  right  to  kill  him. 
He  was  mine.  It  wasn't  fair,  was  it,  Miss  West?" 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  said  Rosemary  decidedly.  "Not  a 
bit  fair.  I  remember  I  had  a  pet  hen  when  I  was  a 
little  girl.  She  was  such  a  pretty  little  thing — all 
golden  brown  and  speckly.  I  loved  her  as  much  as 
I  ever  loved  any  pet.  She  was  never  killed — she  died 
of  old  age.  Mother  wouldn't  have  her  killed  because 
she  was  my  pet." 

"If  my  mother  had  been  living  she  wouldn't  have  let 


FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND          213 

Adam  be  killed,"  said  Faith.  "For  that  matter,  father 
wouldn't  have  either,  if  he'd  been  home  and  known  of 
it.  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't,  Miss  West." 

"I'm  sure,  too,"  said  Rosemary.  There  was  a  little 
added  flush  on  her  face.  She  looked  rather  conscious 
but  Faith  noticed  nothing. 

"Was  it  very  wicked  of  me  not  to  tell  Mr.  Perry  his 
coat-tails  were  scorching?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Oh,  terribly  wicked,"  answered  Rosemary,  with 
dancing  eyes.  "But  /  would  have  been  just  as  naughty, 
Faith — /  wouldn't  have  told  him  they  were  scorching 
— and  I  don't  believe  I  would  ever  have  been  a  bit 
sorry  for  my  wickedness,  either." 

"Una  thought  I  should  have  told  him  because  he 
was  a  minister." 

"Dearest,  if  a  minister  doesn't  behave  as  a  gentle- 
man we  are  not  bound  to  respect  his  coat-tails.  I  know 
/  would  just  have  loved  to  see  Jimmy  Perry's  coat-tails 
burning  up.  It  must  have  been  fun." 

Both  laughed;  but  Faith  ended  with  a  bitter  little 
sigh. 

"Well,  anyway,  Adam  is  dead  and  I  am  never  going 
to  love  anything  again." 

"Don't  say  that,  dear.  We  miss  so  much  out  of  life 
if  we  don't  love.  The  more  we  love  the  richer  life  is 
— even  if  it  is  only  some  little  furry  or  feathery  pet. 
Would  you  like  a  canary,  Faith — a  little  golden  bit  of 
a  canary?  If  you  would  I'll  give  you  one.  We  have 
two  up  home." 


214  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Oh,  I  would  like  that,"  cried  Faith.  "I  love  birds. 
Only — would  Aunt  Martha's  cat  eat  it?  It's  so  tragic 
to  have  your  pets  eaten.  I  don't  think  I  could  endure 
it  a  second  time." 

"If  you  hang  the  cage  far  enough  from  the  wall  I 
don't  think  the  cat  could  harm  it.  I'll  tell  you  just 
how  to  take  care  of  it  and  I'll  bring  it  to  Ingleside  for 
you  the  next  time  I  come  down." 

To  herself,  Rosemary  was  thinking, 

"It  will  give  every  gossip  in  the  Glen  something  to 
talk  of,  but  I  will  not  care.  I  want  to  comfort  this 
poor  little  heart." 

Faith  was  comforted.  Sympathy  and  understand- 
ing were  very  sweet.  She  and  Miss  Rosemary  sat  on 
the  old  pine  until  the  twilight  crept  softly  down  over 
the  white  valley  and  the  evening  star  shone  over  the 
gray  maple  grove.  Faith  told  Rosemary  all  her  small 
history  and  hopes,  her  likes  and  dislikes,  the  ins  and 
outs  of  life  at  the  manse,  the  ups  and  downs  of  school 
society.  Finally  they  parted  firm  friends. 

Mr.  Meredith  was,  as  usual,  lost  in  dreams  when 
supper  began  that  evening,  but  presently  a  name 
pierced  his  abstraction  and  brought  him  back  to  reality. 
Faith  was  telling  Una  of  her  meeting  with  Rosemary. 

"She  is  just  lovely,  I  think,"  said  Faith.  "Just  as 
nice  as  Mrs.  Blythe — but  different.  I  felt  as  if  I 
wanted  to  hug  her.  She  did  hug  me — such  a  nice, 
velvety  hug.  And  she  called  me  'dearest.'  It  thrilled 
me.  I  could  tell  her  anything." 


FAITH  MAKES  A  FRIEND          215 

"So  you  liked  Miss  West,  Faith?"  Mr.  Meredith 
asked,  with  a  rather  odd  intonation. 
"I  love  her,"  cried  Faith. 
"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Meredith.    "Ah!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD 

JOHN  MEREDITH  walked  meditatively  through 
the  clear  crispness  of  a  winter  night  in  Rainbow- 
Valley.  The  hills  beyond  glistened  with  the  chill, 
splendid  lustre  of  moonlight  on  snow.  Every  little  fir 
tree  in  the  long  valley  sang  its  own  wild  song  to  the 
harp  of  wind  and  frost.  His  children  and  the  Blythe 
lads  and  lasses  were  coasting  down  the  eastern  slope 
and  whizzing  over  the  glassy  pond.  They  were  having 
a  glorious  time  and  their  gay  voices  and  gayer  laughter 
echoed  up  and  down  the  valley,  dying  away  in  elfin 
cadences  among  the  trees.  On  the  right  the  lights 
of  Ingleside  gleamed  through  the  maple  grove  with 
the  genial  lure  and  invitation  which  seems  always  to 
glow  in  the  beacons  of  a  home  where  we  know  there 
is  love  and  good-cheer  and  a  welcome  for  all  kin, 
whether  of  flesh  or  spirit  Mr.  Meredith  liked  very 
well  on  occasion  to  spend  an  evening  arguing  with 
the  doctor  by  the  drift  wood  fire,  where  the  famous 
china  dogs  of  Ingleside  kept  ceaseless  watch  and  ward, 
as  became  deities  of  the  hearth,  but  to-night  he  did 
not  look  that  way.  Far  on  the  western  hill  gleamed  a 
paler  but  more  alluring  star.  Mr.  Meredith  was  on 

216 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  217 

his  way  to  see  Rosemary  West,  and  he  meant  to  tell 
her  something  which  had  been  slowly  blossoming  in 
his  heart  since  their  first  meeting  and  had  sprung  into 
full  flower  on  the  evening  when  Faith  had  so  warmly 
voiced  her  admiration  for  Rosemary. 

He  had  come  to  realize  that  he  had  learned  to  care 
for  Rosemary.  Not  as  he  had  cared  for  Cecilia,  of 
course.  That  was  entirely  different.  That  love  of 
romance  and  dream  and  glamour  could  never,  he 
thought,  return.  But  Rosemary  was  beautiful  and 
sweet  and  dear — very  dear.  She  was  the  best  of  com- 
panions. He  was  happier  in  her  company  than  he 
had  ever  expected  to  be  again.  She  would  be  an  ideal 
mistress  for  his  home,  a  good  mother  to  his  children. 

During  the  years  of  his  widowhood  Mr.  Meredith- 
had  received  innumerable  hints  from  brother  members- 
of  Presbytery  and  from  many  parishioners  who  could 
not  be  suspected  of  any  ulterior  motive,  as  well  as  from* 
some  who  could,  that  he  ought  to  marry  again.  But 
these  hints  never  made  any  impression  on  him.  It 
was  commonly  thought  he  was  never  aware  of  them. 
But  he  was  quite  acutely  aware  of  them.  And  in  his- 
own  occasional  visitations  of  common  sense  he  knew 
that  the  common  sensible  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to 
marry.  But  common  sense  was  not  the  strong  point 
of  John  Meredith,  and  to  choose  out,  deliberately  and 
cold-bloodedly,  some  "suitable"  woman,  as  one  might 
choose  a  housekeeper  or  a  business  partner,  was  some- 
thing he  was  quite  incapable  of  doing.  How  he  hated 


218  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

that  word  "suitable."  It  reminded  him  so  strongly 
of  James  Perry.  "A  suitable,  woman  of  suitable,  age," 
that  unctuous  brother  of  the  cloth  had  said,  in  his  far 
from  subtle  hint.  For  the  moment  John  Meredith 
had  had  a  perfectly  unbelievable  desire  to  rush  madly 
away  and  propose  marriage  to  the  youngest,  most 
unsuitable  woman  it  was  possible  to  discover. 

Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott  was  his  good  friend  and  he 
liked  her.  But  when  she  had  bluntly  told  him  he 
should  marry  again  he  felt  as  if  she  had  torn  away 
the  veil  that  hung  before  some  sacred  shrine  of  his 
innermost  life,  and  he  had  been  more  or  less  afraid 
of  her  ever  since.  He  knew  there  were  women  in  his 
congregation  "of  suitable  age"  who  would  marry  him 
quite  readily.  That  fact  had  seeped  through  all  his 
abstraction  very  early  in  his  ministry  in  Glen  St.  Mary. 
They  were  good,  substantial,  uninteresting  women, 
one  or  two  fairly  comely,  the  others  not  exactly  so; 
and  John  Meredith  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
marrying  any  one  of  them  as  of  hanging  himself.  He 
had  some  ideals  to  which  no  seeming  necessity  could 
make  him  false.  He  could  ask  no  woman  to  fill 
Cecilia's  place  in  his  home  unless  he  could  offer  her  at 
least  some  of  the  affection  and  homage  he  had  given 
to  his  girlish  bride.  And  where,  in  his  limited  femi- 
nine acquaintance,  was  such  a  woman  to  be  found  ? 

Rosemary  West  had  come  into  his  life  on  that 
autumn  evening  bringing  with  her  an  atmosphere  in 
which  his  spirit  recognized  native  air.  Across  the  gulf 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  219 

of  strangerhood  they  clasped  hands  of  friendship.  He 
knew  her  better  in  that  ten  minutes  by  the  hidden 
spring  than  he  knew  Emmeline  Drew  or  Elizabeth 
Kirk  or  Amy  Annetta  Douglas  in  a  year,  or  could 
know  them,  in  a  century.  He  had  fled  to  her  for  com- 
fort when  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  had  outraged  his  mind 
and  soul  and  had  found  it.  Since  then  he  had  gone 
often  to  the  house  on  the  hill,  slipping  through  the 
shadowy  paths  of  night  in  Rainbow  Valley  so  astutely 
that  Glen  gossip  could  never  be  absolutely  certain  that 
he  did  go  to  see  Rosemary  West.  Once  or  twice  he 
had  been  caught  in  the  West  living  room  by  other 
visitors;  that  was  all  the  Ladies'  Aid  had  to  go  by. 
But  when  Elizabeth  Kirk  heard  it  she  put  away  a  secret 
hope  she  had  allowed  herself  to  cherish,  without  a 
change  of  expression  on  her  kind  plain  face,  and 
Emmeline  Drew  resolved  that  the  next  time  she  saw 
a  certain  old  bachelor  of  Lowbridge  she  would  not 
snub  him  as  she  had  done  at  a  previous  meeting.  Of 
course,  if  Rosemary  West  was  out  to  catch  the  min- 
ister she  would  catch  him;  she  looked  younger  than 
she  was  and  men  thought  her  pretty ;  besides,  the  West 
girls  had  money ! 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  won't  be  so  absent-minded 
as  to  propose  to  Ellen  by  mistake,"  was  the  only 
malicious  thing  she  allowed  herself  to  say  to  a  sympa- 
thetic sister  Drew.  Emmeline  bore  no  further  grudge 
towards  Rosemary.  When  all  was  said  and  done,  an 
unencumbered  bachelor  was  far  better  than  a  widower 


220  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

with  four  children.  It  had  been  only  the  glamour  of 
the  manse  that  had  temporarily  blinded  Emmeline's 
«yes  to  the  better  part. 

A  sled  with  three  shrieking  occupants  sped  past  Mr. 
Meredith  to  the  pond.  Faith's  long  curls  streamed  in 
the  wind  and  her  laughter  rang  above  that  of  the 
others.  John  Meredith  looked  after  them  kindly  and 
longingly.  He  was  glad  that  his  children  had  such 
chums  as  the  Brythes — glad  that  they  had  so  wise  and 
gay  and  tender  a  friend  as  Mrs.  Blythe.  But  they 
needed  something  more,  and  that  something  would  be 
supplied  when  he  brought  Rosemary  West  as  a  bride 
to  the  old  manse.  There  was  in  her  a  quality  essen- 
tially maternal 

It  was  Saturday  night  and  he  did  not  often  go  call- 
ing on  Saturday  night,  which  was  supposed  to  be  dedi- 
cated to  a  thoughtful  revision  of  Sunday's  sermon. 
But  he  had  chosen  this  night  because  he  had  learned 
that  Ellen  West  was  going  to  be  away  and  Rosemary 
would  be  alone.  Often  as  he  had  spent  pleasant  eve- 
nings in  the  house  on  the  hill  he  had  never,  since  that 
first  meeting  at  the  spring,  seen  Rosemary  alone.  Ellen 
had  always  been  there. 

He  did  not  precisely  object  to  Ellen  being  there.  He 
liked  Ellen  West  very  much  and  they  were  the  best  of 
friends.  Ellen  had  an  almost  masculine  understanding 
and  a  sense  of  humour  which  his  own  shy,  hidden 
appreciation  of  fun  found  very  agreeable.  He  liked 
her  interest  in  politics  and  world  events.  There  was  no 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  221 

man  in  the  Glen,  not  even  excepting  Dr.  Blythe,  who 
had  a  better  grasp  of  such  things. 

"I  think  it  is  just  as  well  to  be  interested  in  things 
as  long  as  you  live,"  she  had  said.  "If  you're  not,  it 
doesn't  seem  to  me  that  there's  much  difference  be- 
tween the  quick  and  the  dead." 

He  liked  her  pleasant,  deep,  nimbly  voice;  he  liked 
the  hearty  laugh  with  which  she  always  ended  up  some 
jolly  and  well-told  story.  She  never  gave  him  digs 
about  his  children  as  other  Glen  women  did ;  she  never 
bored  him  with  local  gossip;  she  had  no  malice  and 
no  pettiness.  She  was  always  splendidly  sincere.  Mr. 
Meredith,  who  had  picked  up  Miss  Cornelia's  way  of 
classifying  people,  considered  that  Ellen  belonged  to 
the  race  of  Joseph.  Altogether,  an  admirable  woman 
for  a  sister-in-law.  Nevertheless,  a  man  did  not  want 
even  the  most  admirable  of  women  around  when  he 
was  proposing  to  another  woman.  And  Ellen  was 
always  around.  She  did  not  insist  on  talking  to  Mr. 
Meredith  herself  all  the  time.  She  let  Rosemary  have 
a  fair  share  of  him.  Many  evenings,  indeed,  Ellen 
effaced  herself  almost  totally,  sitting  back  in  the  corner 
with  St.  George  on  her  lap,  and  letting  Mr.  Meredith 
and  Rosemary  talk  and  sing  and  read  books  together. 
Sometimes  they  quite  forgot  her  presence.  But  if 
their  conversation  or  choice  of  duets  ever  betrayed 
the  least  tendency  to  what  Ellen  considered  philander- 
ing, Ellen  promptly  nipped  that  tendency  in  the  bud 
and  blotted  Rosemary  out  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


222  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

But  not  even  the  grimmest  of  amiable  dragons  can 
altogether  prevent  a  certain  subtle  language  of  eye 
and  smile  and  eloquent  silence;  and  so  the  minister's 
courtship  progressed  after  a  fashion. 

But  if  it  was  ever  to  reach  a  climax  that  climax 
must  come  when  Ellen  was  away.  And  Ellen  was  so 
seldom  away,  especially  in  winter.  She  found  her  own 
fireside  the  pleasantest  place  in  the  world,  she  vowed. 
Gadding  had  no  attraction  for  her.  She  was  fond 
of  company  but  she  wanted  it  at  home.  Mr.  Meredith 
had  almost  been  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must 
write  to  Rosemary  what  he  wanted  to  say,  when  Ellen 
cpsually  announced  one  evening  that  she  was  going 
to  a  silver  wedding  next  Saturday  night.  She  had 
been  bridesmaid  when  the  principals  were  married. 
Only  old  guests  were  invited,  so  Rosemary  was  not 
included.  Mr.  Meredith  pricked  up  his  ears  a  trifle 
and  a  gleam  flashed  into  his  dreamy  dark  eyes.  Both 
Ellen  and  Rosemary  saw  it ;  and  both  Ellen  and  Rose- 
mary felt,  with  a  tingling  shock,  that  Mr.  Meredith 
would  certainly  come  up  the  hill  next  Saturday 
night. 

"Might  as  well  have  it  over  with,  St.  George,"  Ellen 
sternly  told  the  black  cat,  after  Mr.  Meredith  had  gone 
home  and  Rosemary  had  silently  gone  upstairs.  "He 
means  to  ask  her,  St.  George — I'm  perfectly  sure  of 
that.  So  he  might  as  well  have  his  chance  to  do  it  and 
find  out  he  can't  get  her,  George.  She'd  rather  like 
to  take  him,  Saint.  I  know  that — but  she  promised, 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  223 

and  she's  got  to  keep  her  promise.  I'm  rather  sorry 
in  some  ways,  St.  George.  I  don't  know  of  a  man 
I'd  sooner  have  for  a  brother-in-law  if  a  brother-in- 
law  was  convenient.  I  haven't  a  thing  against  him, 
Saint — not  a  thing  except  that  he  won't  see  and  can't 
be  made  to  see  that  the  Kaiser  is  a  menace  to  the  peace 
of  Europe.  That's  his  blind  spot.  But  he's  good  com- 
pany and  I  like  him.  A  woman  can  say  anything  she 
likes  to  a  man  with  a  mouth  like  John  Meredith's  and 
be  sure  of  not  being  misunderstood.  Such  a  man  is 
more  precious  than  rubies,  Saint — and  much  rarer, 
George.  But  he  can't  have  Rosemary — and  I  suppose 
when  he  finds  out  he  can't  have  her  he'll  drop  us  both. 
And  we'll  miss  him,  Saint — we'll  miss  him  something 
scandalous,  George.  But  she  promised,  and  I'll  see 
that  she  keeps  her  promise !" 

Ellen's  face  looked  almost  ugly  in  its  lowering  reso- 
lution. Upstairs  Rosemary  was  crying  into  her 
pillow. 

So  Mr.  Meredith  found  his  lady  alone  and  looking 
very  beautiful.  Rosemary  had  not  made  any  special 
toilet  for  the  occasion ;  she  wanted  to,  but  she  thought 
it  would  be  absurd  to  dress  up  for  a  man  you  meant  to 
refuse.  So  she  wore  her  plain  dark  afternoon  dress 
and  looked  like  a  queen  in  it.  Her  suppressed  excite- 
ment coloured  her  face  to  brilliancy,  her  great  blue 
eyes  were  pools  of  light  less  placid  than  usual. 

She  wished  the  interview  was  over.  She  had  looked 
forward  to  it  all  day  with  dread.  She  felt  quite  sure 


224  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

that  John  Meredith  cared  a  great  deal  for  her  after 
a  fashion — and  she  felt  just  as  sure  that  he  did  not 
care  for  her  as  he  had  cared  for  his  first  love.  She 
felt  that  her  refusal  would  disappoint  him  consider- 
ably, but  she  did  not  think  it  would  altogether  over- 
whelm him.  Yet  she  hated  to  make  it;  hated  for  his 
sake  and — Rosemary  was  quite  honest  with  herself — 
for  her  own.  She  knew  she  could  have  loved  John 
Meredith  if — if  it  had  been  permissible.  She  knew 
that  life  would  be  a  blank  thing  if,  rejected  as  lover, 
he  refused  longer  to  be  a  friend.  She  knew  that  she 
could  be  very  happy  with  him  and  that  she  could  make 
him  happy.  But  between  her  and  happiness  stood  the 
prison  gate  of  the  promise  she  had  made  to  Ellen  years 
ago. 

Rosemary  could  not  remember  her  father.  He  had 
died  when  she  was  only  three  years  old.  Ellen,  who 
had  been  thirteen,  remembered  him,  but  with  no  special 
tenderness.  He  had  been  a  stern,  reserved  man  many 
years  older  than  his  fair,  pretty  wife.  Five  years 
later  their  brother  of  twelve  died  also ;  since  his  death 
the  two  girls  had  always  lived  alone  with  their  mother. 
They  had  never  mingled  very  freely  in  the  social  life 
of  the  Glen  or  Lowbridge,  though  where  they  went 
the  wit  and  spirit  of  Ellen  and  the  sweetness  and 
beauty  of  Rosemary  made  them  welcome  guests.  Both 
had  what  was  called  "a  disappointment"  in  their  girl- 
hood. The  sea  had  not  given  up  Rosemary's  lover; 
and  Norman  Douglas,  then  a  handsome,  red-haired 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  225 

young  giant,  noted  for  wild  driving  and  noisy  though 
harmless  escapades,  had  quarrelled  with  Ellen  and  left 
her  in  a  fit  of  pique. 

There  were  not  lacking  candidates  for  both  Martin's 
and  Norman's  places,  but  none  seemed  to  find  favour 
in  the  eyes  of  the  West  girls,  who  drifted  slowly  out 
of  youth  and  bellehood  without  any  seeming  regret. 
They  were  devoted  to  their  mother,  who  was  a  chronic 
invalid.  The  three  had  a  little  circle  of  home  interests 
— books  and  pets  and  flowers — which  made  them 
happy  and  contented- 
Mrs.  West's  death,  which  occurred  on  Rosemary's 
twenty-fifth  birthday,  was  a  bitter  grief  to  them.  At 
first  they  were  intolerably  lonely.  Ellen,  especially, 
continued  to  grieve  and  brood,  her  long,  moody  mus- 
ings broken  only  by  fits  of  stormy,  passionate  weep- 
ing. The  old  Lowbridge  doctor  told  Rosemary  that 
he  feared  permanent  melancholy  or  worse. 

Once,  when  Ellen  had  sat  all  day,  refusing  either 
to  speak  or  eat,  Rosemary  had  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  by  her  sister's  side. 

"Oh,  Ellen,  you  have  me  yet,"  she  said  imploringly. 
"Am  I  nothing  to  you?  We  have  always  loved  each 
other  so." 

"I  won't  have  you  always,"  Ellen  had  said,  breaking 
her  silence  with  harsh  intensity.  "You  will  marry  and 
leave  me.  I  shall  be  left  all  alone.  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought — I  cannot.  I  would  rather  die." 

"I  will  never  marry,"  said  Rosemary,  "never,  Ellen." 


226  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Ellen  bent  forward  and  looked  searchingly  into 
Rosemary's  eyes. 

"Will  you  promise  me  that  solemnly?"  she  said. 
"Promise  it  on  mother's  Bible." 

Rosemary  assented  at  once,  quite  willing  to  humor 
Ellen.  What  did  it  matter?  She  knew  quite  well  she 
would  never  want  to  marry  any  one.  Her  love  had 
gone  down  with  Martin  Crawford  to  the  deeps  of  the 
sea;  and  without  love  she  could  not  marry  any  one. 
So  she  promised  readily,  though  Ellen  made  rather  a 
fearsome  rite  of  it.  They  clasped  hands  over  the  Bible, 
in  their  mother's  vacant  room,  and  both  vowed  to  each 
other  that  they  would  never  marry  and  would  always 
live  together. 

Ellen's  condition  improved  from  that  hour.  She 
soon  regained  her  normal  cheery  poise.  For  ten  years 
she  and  Rosemary  lived  in  the  old  house  happily,  un- 
disturbed by  any  thought  of  marrying  or  giving  in 
marriage.  Their  promise  sat  very  lightly  on  them. 
Ellen  never  failed  to  remind  her  sister  of  it  whenever 
any  eligible  male  creature  crossed  their  paths,  but  she 
had  never  been  really  alarmed  until  John  Meredith 
came  home  that  night  with  Rosemary.  As  for  Rose- 
mary, Ellen's  obsession  regarding  that  promise  had 
always  been  a  little  matter  of  mirth  to  her — until  lately. 
Now,  it  was  a  merciless  fetter,  self-imposed  but  never 
to  be  shaken  off.  Because  of  it  to-night  she  must  turn 
her  face  from  happiness. 

It  was  true  that  the  shy,  sweet,  rosebud  love  she 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  WORD  227 

had  given  to  her  boy-lover  she  could  never  give  to 
another.  But  she  knew  now  that  she  could  give  to 
John  Meredith  a  love  richer  and  more  womanly.  She 
knew  that  he  touched  deeps  in  her  nature  that  Martin 
had  never  touched — that  had  not,  perhaps,  been  in  the 
girl  of  seventeen  to  touch.  And  she  must  send  him 
away  to-night — send  him  back  to  his  lonely  hearth  and 
his  empty  life  and  his  heart-breaking  problems,  be- 
cause she  had  promised  Ellen,  ten  years  before,  on 
their  mother's  Bible,  that  she  would  never  marry. 

John  Meredith  did  not  immediately  grasp  his  oppor- 
tunity. On  the  contrary,  he  talked  for  two  good  hours 
on  the  least  lover-like  of  subjects.  He  even  tried 
politics,  though  politics  always  bored  Rosemary.  The 
latter  began  to  think  that  she  had  been  altogether  mis- 
taken, and  her  fears  and  expectations  suddenly  seemed 
to  her  grotesque.  She  felt  flat  and  foolish.  The  glow 
went  out  of  her  face  and  the  lustre  out  of  her  eyes. 
John  Meredith  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  asking 
her  to  marry  him. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  he  rose,  came  across  the 
room,  and  standing  by  her  chair,  he  asked  it.  The 
room  had  grown  terribly  still.  Even  St.  George  ceased 
to  purr.  Rosemary  heard  her  own  heart  beating  and 
was  sure  John  Meredith  must  hear  it  too. 

Now  was  the  time  for  her  to  say  no,  gently  but 
firmly.  She  had  been  ready  for  days  with  her  stilted, 
regretful  little  formula.  And  now  the  words  of  it 
had  completely  vanished  from  her  mind.  She  had  to 


228  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

say  no — and  she  suddenly  found  she  could  not  say  it. 
It  was  the  impossible  word.  She  knew  now  that  it 
was  not  that  she  could  have  loved  John  Meredith,  but 
that  she  did  love  him.  The  thought  of  putting  him 
from  her  life  was  agony. 

She  must  say  something;  she  lifted  her  bowed 
golden  head  and  asked  him  stammeringly  to  give  her 
a  few  days  for — for  consideration. 

John  Meredith  was  a  little  surprised.  He  was  not 
vainer  than  any  man  has  a  right  to  be,  but  he  had 
expected  that  Rosemary  West  would  say  yes.  He  had 
been  tolerably  sure  she  cared  for  him.  Then  why  this 
doubt — this  hesitation?  She  was  not  a  school  girl  to 
be  uncertain  as  to  her  own  mind.  He  felt  an  ugly 
shock  of  disappointment  and  dismay.  But  he  assented 
to  her  request  with  his  unfailing  gentle  courtesy  and 
went  away  at  once. 

"I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  days,"  said  Rosemary  with 
downward  eyes  and  burning  face. 

When  the  door  shut  behind  him  she  went  back  into 
the  room  and  wrung  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
ST.  GEORGE  KNOWS  ALL  ABOUT  IT 

AT  midnight  Ellen  West  was  walking  home  from 
the  Pollock  silver  wedding.  She  had  stayed  a 
little  while  after  the  other  guests  had  gone  to  help  the 
gray-haired  bride  wash  the  dishes.  The  distance  be- 
tween the  two  houses  was  not  far  and  the  road  good, 
so  that  Ellen  was  enjoying  her  walk  back  home  in  the 
moonlight. 

The  evening  had  been  a  pleasant  one.  Ellen,  who 
had  not  been  to  a  party  for  years,  found  it  very  pleas- 
ant. All  the  guests  had  been  members  of  her  old  set 
and  there  was  no  intrusive  youth  to  spoil  the  flavour, 
for  the  only  son  of  the  bride  and  groom  was  far  away 
at  college  and  could  not  be  present.  Norman  Douglas 
had  been  there  and  they  had  met  socially  for  the  first 
time  in  years,  though  she  had  seen  him  once  or  twice 
in  church  that  winter.  Not  the  least  sentiment  was 
awakened  in  Ellen's  heart  by  their  meeting.  She  was 
accustomed  to  wonder,  when  she  thought  about  it  at 
all,  how  she  could  ever  have  fancied  him  or  felt  so 
badly  over  his  sudden  marriage.  But  she  had  rather 
liked  meeting  him  again.  She  had  forgotten  how 
bracing  and  stimulating  he  could  be.  No  gathering 

was  ever  stagnant  when  Norman  Douglas  was  present. 

229 


230  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Everybody  had  been  surprised  when  Norman  came. 
It  was  well  known  he  never  went  anywhere.  The 
Pollocks  had  invited  him  because  he  had  been  one  of 
the  original  guests,  but  they  never  thought  he  would 
come.  He  had  taken  his  second  cousin,  Amy  Annetta 
Douglas,  out  to  supper  and  seemed  rather  attentive  to 
her.  But  Ellen  sat  across  the  table  from  him  and  had 
a  spirited  argument  with  him — an  argument  during 
which  all  his  shouting  and  banter  could  not  fluster  her 
and  in  which  she  came  off  best,  flooring  Norman  so 
composedly  and  so  completely  that  he  was  silent  for 
ten  minutes.  At  the  end  of  which  time  he  had  mut- 
tered in  his  ruddy  beard, — "spunky  as  ever — spunky 
as  ever" — and  began  to  hector  Amy  Annetta,  who 
giggled  foolishly  over  his  sallies  where  Ellen  would 
have  retorted  bitingly. 

Ellen  thought  these  things  over  as  she  walked  home, 
tasting  them  with  reminiscent  relish.  The  moonlit  air 
sparkled  with  frost.  The  snow  crisped  under  her  feet. 
Below  her  lay  the  Glen  with  the  white  harbour  beyond. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  manse  study.  So  John  Mere- 
dith had  gone  home.  Had  he  asked  Rosemary  to 
marry  him?  And  after  what  fashion  had  she  made 
her  refusal  known?  Ellen  felt  that  she  would  never 
know  this,  though  she  was  quite  curious.  She  was 
sure  that  Rosemary  would  never  tell  her  anything 
about  it  and  she  would  not  dare  to  ask.  She  must 
just  be  content  with  the  fact  of  the  refusal.  After 
all,  that  was  the  only  thing  that  really  mattered. 


ST.  GEORGE  KNOWS  ALL          231 

"I  hope  he'll  have  sense  enough  to  come  back  once 
in  a  while  and  be  friendly,"  she  said  to  herself.  She 
disliked  so  much  to  be  alone  that  thinking  aloud  was 
one  of  her  devices  for  circumventing  unwelcome  soli- 
tude. "It's  awful  never  to  have  a  man-body  with 
some  brains  to  talk  to  once  in  a  while.  And  like  as 
not  he'll  never  come  near  the  house  again.  There's 
Norman  Douglas,  too — I  like  that  man,  and  I'd  like 
to  have  a  good  rousing  argument  with  him  now  and 
then.  But  he'd  never  dare  come  up  for  fear  people 
would  think  he  was  courting  me  again — for  fear  I'd 
think  it,  too,  most  likely — though  he's  more  of  a 
stranger  to  me  now  than  John  Meredith.  It  seems 
like  a  dream  that  we  could  ever  have  been  beaus.  But 
there  it  is — there's  only  two  men  in  the  Glen  I'd  ever 
want  to  talk  to — and  what  with  gossip  and  this 
wretched  love-making  business  it's  not  likely  I'll  ever 
see  either  of  them  again.  I  could,"  said  Ellen,  address- 
ing the  unmoved  stars  with  spiteful  emphasis,  "I  could 
have  made  a  better  world  myself." 

She  paused  at  her  gate  with  a  sudden  vague  feeling 
of  alarm.  There  was  still  a  light  in  the  living  room 
and  to  and  fro  across  the  window-shades  went  the 
shadow  of  a  woman  walking  restlessly  up  and  down. 
What  was  Rosemary  doing  up  at  this  hour  of  the 
night?  And  why  was  she  striding  about  like  a 
lunatic  ? 

Ellen  went  softly  in.  As  she  opened  the  hall  door 
Rosemary  came  out  of  the  room.  She  was  flushed  and 


232  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

breathless.  An  atmosphere  of  stress  and  passion  hung 
about  her  like  a  garment. 

"Why  aren't  you  in  bed,  Rosemary?"  demanded 
Ellen. 

"Come  in  here,"  said  Rosemary  intensely.  WI  want 
to  tell  you  something." 

Ellen  composedly  removed  her  wraps  and  overshoes, 
and  followed  her  sister  into  the  warm,  fire-lighted 
room.  She  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  table  and 
waited.  She  was  looking  very  handsome  herself,  in 
her  own  grim,  black-browed  style.  The  new  black 
velvet  dress,  with  its  train  and  V-neck,  which  she  had 
made  purposely  for  the  party,  became  her  stately,  mas- 
sive figure.  She  wore  coiled  around  her  neck  the  rich 
heavy  necklace  of  amber  beads  which  was  a  family 
heirloom.  Her  walk  in  the  frosty  air  had  stung  her 
cheeks  into  a  glowing  scarlet.  But  her  steel-blue  eyes 
were  as  icy  and  unyielding  as  the  sky  of  the  winter 
night.  She  stood  waiting  in  a  silence  which  Rosemary 
could  break  only  by  a  convulsive  effort 

"Ellen,  Mr.  Meredith  was  here  this  evening." 

''Yes?" 

"And — and — he  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"So  I  expected.    Of  course  you  refused  him?" 

"No." 

"Rosemary."  Ellen  clenched  her  hands  and  took 
an  involuntary  step  forward.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  accepted  him  ?" 

"No— no." 


ST.  GEORGE  KNOWS  ALL          233 

Ellen  recovered  her  self-command. 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"I — I  asked  him  to  give  me  a  few  days  to  think  it 
over." 

"I  hardly  see  why  that  was  necessary,"  said  Ellen, 
coldly  contemptuous,  "when  there  is  only  the  one 
answer  you  can  make  him." 

Rosemary  held  out  her  hands  beseechingly. 

"Ellen,"  she  said  desperately,  "I  love  John  Meredith 
— I  want  to  be  his  wife.  Will  you  set  me  free  from 
that  promise  ?" 

"No,"  said  Ellen,  merciless,  because  she  was  sick 
from  fear. 

"Ellen— Ellen— " 

"Listen,"  interrupted  Ellen.  "I  did  not  ask  you  for 
that  promise.  You  offered  it." 

"I  know — I  know.  But  I  did  not  think  then  that 
I  could  ever  care  for  any  one  again." 

"You  offered  it,"  went  on  Ellen  unmovably.  "You 
promised  it  over  our  mother's  Bible.  It  was  more  than 
a  promise — it  was  an  oath.  Now  you  want  to  break  it." 

"I  only  asked  you  to  set  me  free  from  it,  Ellen." 

"I  will  not  do  it.  A  promise  is  a  promise  in  my 
eyes.  I  will  not  do  it.  Break  your  promise — be  for- 
sworn if  you  will — but  it  shall  not  be  with  any  assent 
of  mine." 

"You  are  very  hard  on  me,  Ellen." 

"Hard  on  you !  And  what  of  me  ?  Have  you  ever 
given  a  thought  to  what  my  loneliness  would  be  here 


234  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

if  you  left  me?  I  could  not  bear  it — I  would  go  crazy. 
I  cannot  live  alone.  Haven't  I  been  a  good  sister  to 
you?  Have  I  ever  opposed  any  wish  of  yours? 
Haven't  I  indulged  you  in  everything?" 

"Yes— yes." 

"Then  why  do  you  want  to  leave  me  for  this  man 
whom  you  hadn't  even  seen  a  year  ago?" 

"I  love  him,  Ellen." 

"Love!  You  talk  like  a  school  miss  instead  of  a 
middle-aged  woman.  He  doesn't  love  you.  He  wants 
a  housekeeper  and  a  governess.  You  don't  love  him. 
You  want  to  be  'Mrs.' — you  are  one  of  those  weak- 
minded  women  who  thinks  it's  a  disgrace  to  be  ranked 
as  an  old  maid.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Rosemary  quivered.  Ellen  could  not,  or  would  not, 
understand.  There  was  no  use  arguing  with  her. 

"So  you  won't  release  me,  Ellen?" 

"No,  I  won't.  And  I  won't  talk  of  it  again.  You 
promised  and  you've  got  to  keep  your  word.  That's 
all.  Go  to  bed.  Look  at  the  time!  You're  all  ro- 
mantic and  worked  up.  To-morrow  you'll  be  more 
sensible.  At  any  rate,  don't  let  me  hear  any  more  of 
this  nonsense.  Go." 

Rosemary  went  without  another  word,  pale  and 
spiritless.  Ellen  walked  stormily  about  the  room  for 
a  few  minutes,  then  paused  before  the  chair  where  St. 
George  had  been  calmly  sleeping  through  the  whole 
evening.  A  reluctant  smile  overspread  her  dark  face. 
There  had  been  only  one  time  in  her  life — the  time  of 


ST.  GEORGE  KNOWS  ALL          235 

her  mother's  death — when  Ellen  had  not  been  able  to 
temper  tragedy  with  comedy.  Even  in  that  long  ago 
bitterness,  when  Norman  Douglas  had,  after  a  fashion, 
jilted  her,  she  had  laughed  at  herself  quite  as  often  as 
she  had  cried. 

"I  expect  there'll  be  some  sulking,  St.  George.  Yes, 
Saint,  I  expect  we  are  in  for  a  few  unpleasant  foggy 
days.  Well,  we'll  weather  them  through,  George. 
We've  dealt  with  foolish  children  before  now,  Saint. 
Rosemary'll  sulk  a  while — and  then  she'll  get  over  it — 
and  all  will  be  as  before,  George.  She  promised — and 
she's  got  to  keep  her  promise.  And  that's  the  last  word 
on  the  subject  I'll  say  to  you  or  her  or  any  one,  Saint." 

But  Ellen  lay  savagely  awake  till  morning. 

There  was  no  sulking,  however.  Rosemary  was 
pale  and  quiet  the  next  day,  but  beyond  that  Ellen 
could  detect  no  difference  in  her.  Certainly,  she  seemed 
to  bear  Ellen  no  grudge.  It  was  stormy,  so  no  mention 
was  made  of  going  to  church.  In  the  afternoon  Rose- 
mary shut  herself  m  her  room  and  wrote  a  note  to 
John  Meredith.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to  say  no 
in  person.  She  felt  quite  sure  that  if  he  suspected  she 
was  saying  "no"  reluctantly  he  would  not  take  it  for 
an  answer,  and  she  could  not  face  pleading  or  entreaty. 
She  must  make  him  think  she  cared  nothing  at  all  for 
him  and  she  could  do  that  only  by  letter.  She  wrote 
him  the  stiffest,  coolest  little  refusal  imaginable.  It 
was  barely  courteous;  it  certainly  left  no  loophole  of 
hope  for  the  boldest  lover — and  John  Meredith  was 


236  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

anything  but  that.  He  shrank  into  himself,  hurt  and 
mortified,  when  he  read  Rosemary's  letter  next  day 
in  his  dusty  study.  But  under  his  mortification  a 
dreadful  realization  presently  made  itself  felt.  He 
had  thought  he  did  not  love  Rosemary  as  deeply  as  he 
had  loved  Cecilia.  Now,  when  he  had  lost  her,  he 
knew  that  he  did.  She  was  everything  to  him — every- 
thing !  And  he  must  put  her  out  of  his  life  completely. 
Even  friendship  was  impossible  now.  Life  stretched 
before  him  in  intolerable  dreariness.  He  must  go  on — 
there  was  his  work — his  children — but  the  heart  had 
gone  out  of  him.  He  sat  alone  all  that  evening  in  his 
dark,  cold,  comfortless  study  with  his  head  bowed  on 
his  hands.  Up  on  the  hill  Rosemary  had  a  headache 
and  went  early  to  bed,  while  Ellen  remarked  to  St. 
George,  purring  his  disdain  of  foolish  humankind,  who 
did  not  know  that  a  soft  cushion  was  the  only  thing 
that  really  mattered, 

"What  would  women  do  if  headaches  had  never 
been  invented,  St.  George?  But  never  mind,  Saint. 
We'll  just  wink  the  other  eye  for  a  few  weeks.  I 
admit  I  don't  feel  comfortable  myself,  George.  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  drowned  a  kitten.  But  she  promised,  Saint 
— and  she  was  the  one  to  offer  it,  George.  Bismillah !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB 

ALIGHT  rain  had  been  falling  all  day — a  little, 
delicate,  beautiful  spring  rain,  that  somehow 
seemed  to  hint  and  whisper  of  mayflowers  and  waken- 
ing violets.  The  harbour  and  the  gulf  and  the  low- 
lying  shore  fields  had  been  dim  with  pearl-gray  mists. 
But  now  in  the  evening  the  rain  had  ceased  and  the 
mists  had  blown  out  to  sea.  Clouds  sprinkled  the  sky 
over  the  harbour  like  little  fiery  roses.  Beyond  it  the 
hills  were  dark  against  a  spendthrift  splendour  of 
daffodil  and  crimson.  A  great  silvery  evening  star 
was  watching  over  the  bar.  A  brisk,  dancing,  new- 
sprung  wind  was  blowing  up  from  Rainbow  Valley, 
resinous  with  the  odours  of  fir  and  damp  mosses.  It 
crooned  in  the  old  spruces  around  the  graveyard  and 
ruffled  Faith's  splendid  curls  as  she  sat  on  Hezekiah 
Pollock's  tombstone  with  her  arms  round  Mary  Vance 
and  Una.  Carl  and  Jerry  were  sitting  opposite  them 
on  another  tombstone  and  all  were  rather  full  of  mis- 
chief after  being  cooped  up  all  day. 

"The  air  just  shines  to-night,  doesn't  it?    It's  been 
washed  so  clean,  you  see,"  said  Faith  happily. 

Mary  Vance  eyed  her  gloomily.     Knowing  what 
237 


238  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

she  knew,  or  fancied  she  knew,  Mary  considered  that 
Faith  was  far  too  light-hearted.  Mary  had  something 
on  her  mind  to  say  and  she  meant  to  say  it  before  she 
went  home.  Mrs.  Elliott  had  sent  her  up  to  the  manse 
with  some  new-laid  eggs,  and  had  told  her  not  to  stay 
longer  than  half  an  hour.  The  half  hour  was  nearly 
up  so  Mary  uncurled  her  cramped  legs  from  under  her 
and  said  abruptly, 

"Never  mind  about  the  air.  Just  you  listen  to  me. 
You  manse  young  ones  have  just  got  to  behave  better 
than  you've  been  doing  this  spring — that's  all  there  is 
to  it.  I  just  come  up  to-night  a-purpose  to  tell  you  so. 
The  way  people  are  talking  about  you  is  awful." 

"What  have  we  been  doing  now?"  cried  Faith  in 
amazement,  pulling  her  arm  away  from  Mary.  Una's 
lip  trembled  and  her  sensitive  little  soul  shrank  within 
her.  Mary  was  always  so  brutally  frank.  Jerry  began 
to  whistle  out  of  bravado.  He  meant  to  let  Mary  see 
he  didn't  care  for  her  tirades.  Their  behaviour  was 
no  business  of  hers  anyway.  What  right  had  she  to 
lecture  them  on  their  conduct? 

"Doing  now !  You're  doing  all  the  time,"  retorted 
Mary.  "Just  as  soon  as  the  talk  about  one  of  your 
didos  fades  away  you  do  something  else  to  start  it  up 
again.  It  seems  to  me  you  haven't  any  idea  of  how 
manse  children  ought  to  behave!" 

"Maybe  you  can  tell  us,"  said  Jerry,  killingly  sar- 
castic. 

Sarcasm  was  quite  thrown  away  on  Mary. 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        239 

"/  can  tell  you  what  will  happen  if  you  don't  learn 
to  behave  yourselves.  The  session  will  ask  your  father 
to  resign.  There  now,  Master  Jerry-know-it-all.  Mrs. 
Alec  Davis  said  so  to  Mrs.  Elliott.  I  heard  her.  I 
always  have  my  ears  pricked  up  when  Mrs.  Alec  Davis 
comes  to  tea.  She  said  you  were  all  going  from  bad 
to  worse  and  that  though  it  was  only  what  was  to  be 
expected  when  you  had  nobody  to  bring  you  up,  still 
the  congregation  couldn't  be  expected  to  put  up  with 
it  much  longer,  and  something  would  have  to  be  done. 
The  Methodists  just  laugh  and  laugh  at  you,  and  that 
hurts  the  Presbyterian  feelings.  She  says  you  all  need 
a  good  dose  of  birch  tonic.  Lor',  if  that  would  make 
folks  good  /  oughter  be  a  young  saint.  I'm  not  telling 
you  this  because  I  want  to  hurt  your  feelings.  I'm 
sorry  for  you" — Mary  was  past  mistress  in  the  gentle 
art  of  condescension.  "/  understand  that  you  haven't 
much  chance,  the  way  things  are.  But  other  people 
don't  make  as  much  allowance  as  7  do.  Miss  Drew 
says  Carl  had  a  frog  in  his  pocket  in  Sunday  School 
last  Sunday  and  it  hopped  out  while  she  was  hearing 
the  lesson.  She  says  she's  going  to  give  up  the  class. 
Why  don't  you  keep  your  insecks  home?" 

"I  popped  it  right  back  in  again,"  cried  Carl.  "It 
didn't  hurt  anybody — a  poor  little  frog!  And  I  wish 
old  Jane  Drew  would  give  up  our  class.  I  hate  her. 
Her  own  nephew  had  a  dirty  plug  of  tobacco  in  his 
pocket  and  offered  us  fellows  a  chew  when  Elder  Clow 
was  praying.  I  guess  that's  worse  than  a  frog." 


240  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"No,  'cause  frogs  are  more  unexpected-like.  They 
make  more  of  a  sensation.  'Sides,  he  wasn't  caught 
at  it.  And  then  that  praying  competition  you  had  last 
week  has  made  a  fearful  scandal.  Everybody  is  talk- 
ing about  it." 

"Why,  the  Blythes  were  in  that  as  well  as  us,"  cried 
Faith,  indignantly.  "It  was  Nan  Blythe  who  sug- 
gested it  in  the  first  place.  And  Walter  took  the  prize." 

"Well,  you  get  the  credit  of  it  any  way.  It  wouldn't 
have  been  so  bad  if  you  hadn't  had  it  in  the  graveyard." 

"I  should  think  a  graveyard  was  a  very  good  place 
to  pray  in,"  retorted  Jerry. 

"Deacon  Hazard  drove  past  when  you  were  pray- 
ing," said  Mary,  "and  he  saw  and  heard  you,  with  your 
hands  folded  over  your  stomach,  and  groaning  after 
every  sentence.  He  thought  you  were  making  fun  of 
him." 

"So  I  was,"  declared  unabashed  Jerry.  "Only  I 
didn't  know  he  was  going  by,  of  course.  That  was 
just  a  mean  accident.  /  wasn't  praying  in  real  earnest 
— I  knew  I  had  no  chance  of  winning  the  prize.  So  I 
was  just  getting  what  fun  I  could  out  of  it.  Walter 
Blythe  can  pray  bully.  Why,  he  can  pray  as  well  as 
dad." 

"Una  is  the  only  one  of  us  who  really  likes  praying," 
said  Faith  pensively. 

"Well,  if  praying  scandalizes  people  so  much  we 
mustn't  do  it  any  more,"  sighed  Una. 

"Shucks,  you  can  pray  all  you  want  to,  only  not  in 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB       241 

the  graveyard — and  don't  make  a  game  of  it.  That 
was  what  made  it  so  bad — that,  and  having  a  tea-party 
on  the  tombstones." 

"We  hadn't." 

"Well,  a  soap-bubble  party  then.  You  had  some- 
thing. The  over-harbour  people  swear  you  had  a  tea- 
party,  but  Fm  willing  to  take  your  word.  And  you 
used  this  tombstone  for  a  table." 

"Well,  Martha  wouldn't  let  us  blow  bubbles  in  the 
house.  She  was  awful  cross  that  day,"  explained 
Jerry.  "And  this  old  slab  made  such  a  jolly  table." 

"Weren't  they  pretty?"  cried  Faith,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling over  the  remembrance.  "They  reflected  the  trees 
and  the  hills  and  the  harbour  like  little  fairy  worlds, 
and  when  we  shook  them  loose  they  floated  away  down 
to  Rainbow  Valley." 

"All  but  one  and  if  went  over  and  bust  up  on  the 
Methodist  spire,"  said  Carl. 

"I'm  glad  we  did  it  once,  anyhow,  before  we  found 
out  it  was  wrong,"  said  Faith. 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  wrong  to  blow  them  on  the 
lawn,"  said  Mary  impatiently.  "Seems  like  I  can't 
knock  any  sense  into  your  heads.  You've  been  told 
often  enough  you  shouldn't  play  in  the  graveyard. 
The  Methodists  are  sensitive  about  it." 

"We  forget,"  said  Faith  dolefully.  "And  the  lawn 
is  so  small — and  so  caterpillary — and  so  full  of  shrubs 
and  things.  We  can't  be  in  Rainbow  Valley  all  the 
time — and  where  are  we  to  go?" 


242  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"It's  the  things  you  do  in  the  graveyard.  It  wouldn't 
matter  if  you  just  sat  here  and  talked  quiet,  same  as 
we're  doing  now.  Well,  I  don't  know  what  is  going 
to  come  of  it  all,  but  I  do  know  that  Elder  Warren  is 
going  to  speak  to  your  pa  about  it.  Deacon  Hazard 
is  his  cousin." 

"I  wish  they  wouldn't  bother  father  about  us,"  said 
Una. 

"Well,  people  think  he  ought  to  bother  himself  about 
you  a  little  more.  7  don't — I  understand  him.  He's 
a  child  in  some  ways  hisself — that's  what  he  is,  and 
needs  some  one  to  look  after  him  as  bad  as  you  do. 
Well,  perhaps  he'll  have  some  one  before  long,  if  all 
tales  is  true." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Faith. 

"Haven't  you  got  any  idea — honest?"  demanded 
Mary. 

"No,  no.    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Well,  you  are  a  lot  of  innocents,  upon  my  word. 
Why,  everybody  is  talking  of  it.  Your  pa  goes  to  see 
Rosemary  West.  She  is  going  to  be  your  step-ma." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  cried  Una,  flushing  crimson. 

"Well,  /  dunno.  I  just  go  by  what  folks  say.  / 
don't  give  it  for  a  fact.  But  it  would  be  a  good  thing. 
Rosemary  West'd  make  you  toe  the  mark  if  she  came 
here,  I'll  bet  a  cent,  for  all  she's  so  sweet  and  smiley 
on  the  face  of  her.  They're  always  that  way  till 
they've  caught  them.  But  you  need  some  one  to  bring 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        243 

you  up.  You're  disgracing  your  pa  and  I  feel  for  him. 
I've  always  thought  an  awful  lot  of  your  pa  ever  since 
that  night  he  talked  to  me  so  nice.  I've  never  said  a 
single  swear  word  since,  or  told  a  lie.  And  I'd  like  to 
see  him  happy  and  comfortable,  with  his  buttons  on 
and  his  meals  decent,  and  you  young  ones  licked  into 
shape,  and  that  old  cat  of  a  Martha  put  in  her  proper 
place.  The  way  she  looked  at  the  eggs  I  brought  her 
to-night.  'I  hope  they're  fresh,'  says  she.  I  just 
wished  they  -was  rotten.  But  you  just  mind  that  she 
gives  you  all  one  for  breakfast,  including  your  pa. 
Make  a  fuss  if  she  doesn't.  That  was  what  they  was 
sent  up  for — but  I  don't  trust  old  Martha.  She's  quite 
capable  of  feeding  'em  to  her  cat." 

Mary's  tongue  being  temporarily  tired,  a  brief 
silence  fell  over  the  graveyard.  The  manse  children 
did  not  feel  like  talking.  They  were  digesting  the  new 
and  n^t  altogether  palatable  ideas  Mary  had  suggested 
to  them.  Jerry  and  Carl  were  somewhat  startled.  But, 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  And  it  wasn't  likely 
there  was  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  Faith,  on  the  whole, 
was  pleased.  Only  Una  was  seriously  upset.  She  felt 
that  she  would  like  to  get  away  and  cry. 

"Will  there  be  any  stars  in  my  crown?"  sang  the 
Methodist  choir,  beginning  to  practice  in  the  Meth- 
odist church. 

"/  want  just  three,**  said  Mary,  whose  theological 
knowledge  had  increased  notably  since  her  residence 


244  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

with  Mrs.  Elliott.  "Just  three — setting  up  on  my 
head,  like  a  corrownet,  a  big  one  in  the  middle  and  a 
small  one  each  side." 

"Are  there  different  sizes  in  souls  ?"  asked  Carl. 

"Of  course.  Why,  little  babies  must  have  smaller 
ones  than  big  men.  Well,  it's  getting  dark  and  I  must 
scoot  home.  Mrs.  Elliott  doesn't  like  me  to  be  out 
after  dark.  Laws,  when  I  lived  with  Mrs.  Wiley  the 
dark  was  just  the  same  as  the  daylight  to  me.  I  didn't 
mind  it  no  more'n  a  gray  cat.  Them  days  seem  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Now,  you  mind  what  I've  said 
and  try  to  behave  yourselves,  for  your  pa's  sake,  /'ll 
always  back  you  up  and  defend  you — you  can  be  dead 
sure  of  that  Mrs.  Elliott  says  she  never  saw  the  like 
of  me  for  sticking  up  for  my  friends.  I  was  real 
sassy  to  Mrs.  Alec  Davis  about  you  and  Mrs.  Elliott 
combed  me  down  for  it  afterwards.  The  fair  Cornelia 
has  a  tongue  of  her  own  and  no  mistake.  But  she  was 
pleased  underneath  for  all,  'cause  she  hates  old  Kitty 
Alec  and  she's  real  fond  of  you.  /  can  see  through 
folks." 

Mary  sailed  off,  excellently  well  pleased  with  her- 
self, leaving  a  rather  depressed  little  group  behind  her. 

"Mary  Vance  always  says  something  that  makes  us 
feel  bad  when  she  comes  up,"  said  Una  resentfully. 

"I  wish  we'd  left  her  to  starve  in  the  old  barn,"  said 
Jerry  vindictively. 

"Oh,  that's  wicked,  Jerry,"  rebuked  Una. 

"May  as  well  have  the  game  as  the  name,"  retorted 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        245 

unrepentant  Jerry.  "If  people  say  we're  so  bad  let's 
be  bad." 

"But  not  if  it  hurts  father,"  pleaded  Faith. 

Jerry  squirmed  uncomfortably.  He  adored  his 
father.  Through  the  unshaded  study  window  they 
could  see  Mr.  Meredith  at  his  desk.  He  did  not  seem 
to  be  either  reading  or  writing.  His  head  was  in  his 
hands  and  there  was  something  in  his  whole  attitude 
that  spoke  of  weariness  and  dejection.  The  children 
suddenly  felt  it. 

"I  dare  say  somebody's  been  worrying  him  about  us 
to-day,"  said  Faith.  "I  wish  we  could  get  along  with- 
out making  people  talk.  Oh — Jem  Blythe !  How  you 
scared  me!" 

Jem  Blythe  had  slipped  into  the  graveyard  and  sat 
down  beside  the  girls.  He  had  been  prowling  about 
Rainbow  Valley  and  had  succeeded  in  finding  the  first 
little  star-white  cluster  of  arbutus  for  his  mother.  The 
manse  children  were  rather  silent  after  his  coming. 
Jem  was  beginning  to  grow  away  from  them  some- 
what this  spring.  He  was  studying  for  the  entrance 
examination  of  Queen's  Academy  and  stayed  after 
school  with  the  older  pupils  for  extra  lessons.  Also, 
his  evenings  were  so  full  of  work  that  he  seldom  joined 
the  others  in  Rainbow  Valley  now.  He  seemed  to  be 
drifting  away  into  grown-up  land. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  all  to-night?"  he 
asked.  "There's  no  fun  in  you." 

"Not    much,"    agreed    Faith    dolefully.      "There 


246  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

wouldn't  be  much  fun  in  you  either  if  you  knew  you 
were  disgracing  your  father  and  making  people  talk 
about  you.'* 

"Who's  been  talking  about  you  now?" 

"Everybody — so  Mary  Vance  says."  And  Faith 
poured  out  her  troubles  to  sympathetic  Jem.  "You 
see,"  she  concluded  dolefully,  "we've  nobody  to  bring 
us  up.  And  so  we  get  into  scrapes  and  people  think 
we're  bad." 

"Why  don't  you  bring  yourselves  up?"  suggested 
Jem.  "I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  Form  a  Good-Conduct 
Club  and  punish  yourselves  every  time  you  do  anything 
that's  not  right." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Faith,  struck  by  it. 
"But,"  she  added  doubtfully,  "things  that  don't  seem 
a  bit  of  harm  to  us  seem  simply  dreadful  to  other 
people.  How  can  we  tell?  We  can't  be  bothering 
father  all  the  time — and  he  has  to  be  away  a  lot,  any- 
how." 

"You  could  mostly  tell  if  you  stopped  to  think  a 
thing  over  before  doing  it  and  ask  yourselves  what  the 
congregation  would  say  about  it,"  said  Jem.  "The 
trouble  is  you  just  rush  into  things  and  don't  think 
them  over  at  all.  Mother  says  you're  all  too  impulsive, 
just  as  she  used  to  be.  The  Good-Conduct  Club  would 
help  you  to  think,  if  you  were  fair  and  honest  about 
punishing  yourselves  when  you  broke  the  rules.  You'd 
have  to  punish  in  some  way  that  really  hurt,  or  it 
wouldn't  do  any  good." 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        247 

"Whip  each  other?" 

"Not  exactly.  You'd  have  to  think  up  different 
ways  of  punishment  to  suit  the  person.  You  wouldn't 
punish  each  other — you'd  punish  yourselves.  I  read 
all  about  such  a  club  in  a  story-book.  You  try  it  and 
see  how  it  works." 

"Let's,"  said  Faith;  and  when  Jem  was  gone  they 
agreed  they  would.  "If  things  aren't  right  we've  just 
got  to  make  them  right,"  said  Faith,  resolutely. 

"We've  got  to  be  fair  and  square,  as  Jem  says,"  said 
Jerry.  "This  is  a  club  to  bring  ourselves  up,  seeing 
there's  nobody  else  to  do  it.  There's  no  use  in  having 
many  rules.  Let's  just  have  one  and  any  of  us  that 
breaks  it  has  got  to  be  punished  hard." 

"But  how." 

"We'll  think  that  up  as  we  go  along.  We'll  hold  a 
session  of  the  club  here  in  the  graveyard  every  night 
and  talk  over  what  we've  done  through  the  day,  and 
if  we  think  we've  done  anything  that  isn't  right  or  that 
would  disgrace  dad  the  one  that  does  it,  or  is  responsi- 
ble for  it,  must  be  punished.  That's  the  rule.  We'll 
all  decide  on  the  kind  of  punishment — it  must  be  made 
to  fit  the  crime,  as  Mr.  Flagg  says.  And  the  one  that's 
guilty  will  be  bound  to  carry  it  out  and  no  shirking. 
There's  going  to  be  fun  in  this,"  concluded  Jerry,  with 
a  relish. 

"You  suggested  the  soap-bubble  party,"  said  Faith. 

"But  that  was  before  we'd  formed  the  club,"  said 
Jerry  hastily.  "Everything  starts  from  to-night." 


248  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"But  what  if  we  can't  agree  on  what's  right,  or  what 
the  punishment  ought  to  be  ?  S'pose  two  of  us  thought 
one  thing  and  two  another.  There  ought  to  be  five  in 
a  club  like  this." 

"We  can  ask  Jem  Blythe  to  be  umpire.  He  is  the 
squarest  boy  in  Glen  St.  Mary.  But  I  guess  we  can 
settle  our  own  affairs  mostly.  We  want  to  keep  this 
as  much  of  a  secret  as  we  can.  Don't  breathe  a  word 
to  Mary  Vance.  She'd  want  to  join  and  do  the  bring- 
ing up. 

"/  think,"  said  Faith,  "that  there's  no  use  in  spoil- 
ing every  day  by  dragging  punishments  in.  Let's  have 
a  punishment  day." 

"We'd  better  choose  Saturday  because  there  is  no 
school  to  interfere,"  suggested  Una. 

"And  spoil  the  one  holiday  in  the  week,"  cried  Faith. 
"Not  much !  No,  let's  take  Friday.  That's  fish  day, 
anyhow,  and  we  all  hate  fish.  We  may  as  well  have  all 
the  disagreeable  things  in  one  day.  Then  other  days 
we  can  go  ahead  and  have  a  good  time." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Jerry  authoritatively.  "Such  a 
scheme  wouldn't  work  at  all.  We'll  just  punish  our- 
selves as  we  go  along  and  keep  a  clear  slate.  Now,  we 
all  understand,  don't  we?  This  is  a  Good-Conduct 
Club,  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  ourselves  up.  We 
agree  to  punish-  ourselves  for  bad  conduct,  and  always 
to  stop  before  we  do  anything,  no  matter  what,  and 
ask  ourselves  if  it  is  likely  to  hurt  dad  in  any  way, 
and  any  one  who  shirks  is  to  be  cast  out  of  the  club 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        249 

and  never  allowed  to  play  with  the  rest  of  us  in  Rain- 
bow Valley  again.  Jem  Blythe  to  be  umpire  in  case 
of  disputes.  No  more  taking  bugs  to  Sunday  School, 
Carl,  and  no  more  chewing  gum  in  public,  if  you 
please,  Miss  Faith." 

"No  more  making  fun  of  elders  praying  or  going 
to  the  Methodist  prayer  meeting,"  retorted  Faith. 

"Why,  it  isn't  any  harm  to  go  to  the  Methodist 
prayer  meeting,"  protested  Jerry  in  amazement. 

"Mrs.  Elliott  says  it  is.  She  says  manse  children 
have  no  business  to  go  anywhere  but  to  Presbyterian 
things." 

"Darn  it,  I  won't  give  up  going  to  the  Methodist 
prayer  meeting,"  cried  Jerry.  "It's  ten  times  more 
fun  than  ours  is." 

"You  said  a  naughty  word,"  cried  Faith.  "Now, 
you've  got  to  punish  yourself." 

"Not  till  it's  all  down  in  black  and  white.  We're 
only  talking  the  club  over.  It  isn't  really  formed  until 
we've  written  it  out  and  signed  it.  There's  got  to  be 
a  constitution  and  by-laws.  And  you  know  there's 
nothing  wrong  in  going  to  a  prayer  meeting." 

"But  it's  not  only  the  wrong  things  we're  to  punish 
ourselves  for,  but  anything  that  might  hurt  father." 

"It  won't  hurt  anybody.  You  know  Mrs.  Elliott 
is  cracked  on  the  subject  of  Methodists.  Nobody  else 
makes  any  fuss  about  my  going.  I  always  behave 
myself.  You  ask  Jem  or  Mrs.  Blythe  and  see  what 
they  say.  I'll  abide  by  their  opinion.  I'm  going  for 


250  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  paper  now  and  I'll  bring  out  the  lantern  and  we'll 
all  sign." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  document  was  solemnly 
signed  on  Hezekiah  Pollock's  tombstone,  on  the  centre 
of  which  stood  the  smoky  manse  lantern,  while  the 
children  knelt  around  it.  Mrs.  Elder  Clow  was  going 
past  at  the  moment  and  next  day  all  the  Glen  heard 
that  the  manse  children  had  been  having  another  pray- 
ing competition  and  had  wound  it  up  by  chasing  each 
other  all  over  the  graves  with  a  lantern.  This  piece 
of  embroidery  was  probably  suggested  by  the  fact 
that,  after  the  signing  and  sealing  was  completed,  Carl 
had  taken  the  lantern  and  had  walked  circumspectly 
to  the  little  hollow  to  examine  his  ant-hill.  The  others 
had  gone  quietly  into  the  manse  and  to  bed. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  true  that  father  is  going  to  marry 
Miss  West?"  Una  had  tremulously  asked  of  Faith, 
after  their  prayers  had  been  said. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'd  like  it,"  said  Faith. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Una,  chokingly.  "She  is 
nice  the  way  she  is.  But  Mary  Vance  says  it  changes 
people  altogether  to  be  made  stepmothers.  They  get 
horrid  cross  and  mean  and  hateful  then,  and  turn  your 
father  against  you.  She  says  they're  sure  to  do  that. 
She  never  knew  it  to  fail  in  a  single  case." 

"I  don't  believe  Miss  West  would  ever  try  to  do 
that,"  cried  Faith. 

"Mary  says  anybody  would.  She  knows  all  about 
stepmothers,  Faith — she  says  she's  seen  hundreds  of 


THE  GOOD-CONDUCT  CLUB        25  \ 

them — and  you've  never  seen  one.  Oh,  Mary  has  told 
me  blood-curdling  things  about  them.  She  says  she 
knew  of  one  who  whipped  her  husband's  little  girls  on 
their  bare  shoulders  till  they  bled,  and  then  shut  them 
up  in  a  cold,  dark,  coal  cellar  all  night.  She  says 
they're  all  aching  to  do  things  like  that." 

"I  don't  believe  Miss  West  would.  You  don't  know 
her  as  well  as  I  do,  Una.  Just  think  of  that  sweet 
little  bird  she  sent  me.  I  love  it  far  more  even  than 
Adam." 

"It's  just  being  a  stepmother  changes  them.  Mary 
says  they  can't  help  it.  I  wouldn't  mind  the  whippings 
so  much  as  having  father  hate  us." 

"You  know  nothing  could  make  father  hate  us. 
Don't  be  silly,  Una.  I  daresay  there's  nothing  to 
worry  over.  Likely  if  we  run  our  club  right  and  bring 
ourselves  up  properly  father  won't  think  of  marrying 
any  one.  And  if  he  does,  I  know  Miss  West  will  be 
lovely  to  us." 

But  Una  had  no  such  conviction  and  she  cried  her- 
self to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE 

FTVDR  a  fortnight  things  ran  smoothly  in  the  Good- 
-L  Conduct  Club.  It  seemed  to  work  admirably. 
Not  once  was  Jem  Blythe  called  in  as  umpire.  Not 
once  did  any  of  the  manse  children  set  the  Glen  gossips 
by  the  ears.  As  for  their  minor  peccadilloes  at  home, 
they  kept  sharp  tabs  on  each  other  and  gamely  under- 
went their  self-imposed  punishment — generally  a 
voluntary  absence  from  some  gay  Friday  night  frolic 
in  Rainbow  Valley,  or  a  sojourn  in  bed  on  some  spring 
evening  when  all  young  bones  ached  to  be  out  and 
away.  Faith,  for  whispering  in  Sunday  School,  con- 
demned herself  to  pass  a  whole  day  without  speaking 
a  single  word,  unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  and 
accomplished  it.  It  was  rather  unfortunate  that  Mr. 
Baker  from  over-harbour  should  have  chosen  that 
evening  for  calling  at  the  manse,  and  that  Faith  should 
have  happened  to  go  to  the  door.  Not  one  word  did 
she  reply  to  his  genial  greeting,  but  went  silently  away 
to  call  her  father  briefly.  Mr.  Baker  was  slightly 
offended  and  told  his  wife  when  he  went  home  that 
that  biggest  Meredith  girl  seemed  a  very  shy,  sulky 

little  thing,  without  manners  enough  to  speak  when  she 

252 


A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE          253 

was  spoken  to.  But  nothing  worse  came  of  it,  and 
generally  their  penances  did  no  harm  to  themselves 
or  anybody  else.  All  of  them  were  beginning  to  feel 
quite  cocksure  that,  after  all,  it  was  a  very  easy  matter 
to  bring  yourself  up. 

"I  guess  people  will  soon  see  that  we  can  behave 
ourselves  properly  as  well  as  anybody,"  said  Faith 
jubilantly.  "It  isn't  hard  when  we  put  our  minds 
to  it." 

She  and  Una  were  sitting  on  the  Pollock  tombstone. 
It  had  been  a  cold,  raw,  wet  day  of  spring  storm  and 
Rainbow  Valley  was  out  of  the  question  for  girls, 
though  the  manse  and  the  Ingleside  boys  were  down 
there  fishing.  The  rain  had  held  up,  but  the  east  wind 
blew  mercilessly  in  from  the  sea,  cutting  to  bone  and 
marrow.  Spring  was  late  in  spite  of  its  early  promise, 
and  there  was  even  yet  a  hard  drift  of  old  snow  and 
ice  in  the  northern  corner  of  the  graveyard.  Lida 
Marsh,  who  had  come  up  to  bring  the  manse  a  mess 
of  herring,  slipped  in  through  the  gate,  shivering.  She 
belonged  to  the  fishing  village  at  the  harbour  mouth 
and  her  father  had,  for  thirty  years,  made  a  practice 
of  sending  a  mess  from  his  first  spring  catch  to  the 
manse.  He  never  darkened  a  church  door;  he  was  a 
hard  drinker  and  a  reckless  man,  but  as  long  as  he  sent 
those  herring  up  to  the  manse  every  spring,  as  his 
father  had  done  before  him,  he  felt  comfortably  sure 
that  his  account  with  the  Powers  That  Govern  was 
squared  for  the  year.  He  would  not  have  expected  a 


254  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

good  mackerel  catch  if  he  had  not  so  sent  the  first 
fruits  of  the  season. 

Lida  was  a  mite  of  ten  and  looked  younger,  because 
she  was  such  a  small,  wizened  little  creature.  To- 
night, as  she  sidled  boldly  enough  up  to  the  manse 
girls,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  never  been  warm  since 
she  was  born.  Her  face  was  purple  and  her  pale-blue, 
bold  little  eyes  were  red  and  watery.  She  wore  a  tat- 
tered print  dress  and  a  ragged  woollen  comforter,  tied 
across  her  thin  shoulders  and  under  her  arms.  She  had 
walked  the  three  miles  from  the  harbour  mouth  bare- 
footed, over  a  road  where  there  was  still  snow  and 
slush  and  mud.  Her  feet  and  legs  were  as  purple  as 
her  face.  But  Lida  did  not  mind  this  much.  She  was 
used  to  being  cold,  and  she  had  been  going  barefooted 
for  a  month  already,  like  all  the  other  swarming  young 
fry  of  the  fishing  village.  There  was  no  self-pity  in 
her  heart  as  she  sat  down  on  the  tombstone  and 
grinned  cheerfully  at  Faith  and  Una.  Faith  and  Una 
grinned  cheerfully  back.  They  knew  Lida  slightly, 
having  met  her  once  or  twice  the  preceding  summer 
when  they  had  gone  down  the  harbour  with  the 
Blythes. 

"Hello!"  said  Lida,  "ain't  this  a  fierce  kind  of  a 
night?  'Taint  fit  for  a  dog  to  be  out,  is  it?" 

"Then  why  are  you  out?"  asked  Faith. 

"Pa  made  me  bring  you  up  some  herring,"  returned 
Lida.  She  shivered,  coughed,  and  stuck  out  her  bare 


A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE          255 

feet.  Lida  was  not  thinking  about  herself  or  her  feet, 
and  was  making  no  bid  for  sympathy.  She  held  her 
feet  out  instinctively  to  keep  them  from  the  wet  grass 
around  the  tombstone.  But  Faith  and  Una  were  in- 
stantly swamped  with  a  wave  of  pity  for  her.  She" 
looked  so  cold — so  miserable. 

"Oh,  why  are  you  barefooted  such  a  cold  night?" 
cried  Faith.  "Your  feet  must  be  almost  frozen." 

"Pretty  near,"  said  Lida  proudly.  "I  tell  you  it  was 
fierce  walking  up  that  harbour  road." 

"Why  didn't  you  put  on  your  shoes  and  stockings  ?" 
asked  Una. 

"Hain't  none  to  put  on.  All  I  had  was  wore  out  by 
the  time  winter  was  over,"  said  Lida  indifferently. 

For  a  moment  Faith  stared  in  horror.  This  was 
terrible.  Here  was  a  little  girl,  almost  a  neighbour, 
half  frozen  because  she  had  no  shoes  or  stockings  in 
this  cruel  spring  weather.  Impulsive  Faith  thought  of 
nothing  but  the  dread  fulness  of  it.  In  a  moment  she 
was  pulling  off  her  own  shoes  and  stockings. 

"Here,  take  these  and  put  them  right  on,"  she  said, 
forcing  them  into  the  hands  of  the  astonished  Lida. 
"Quick  now.  You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold.  I've 
got  others.  Put  them  right  on." 

Lida,  recovering  her  wits,  snatched  at  the  offered 
gift,  with  a  sparkle  in  her  dull  eyes.  Sure  she  would 
put  them  on,  and  that  mighty  quick,  before  any  one 
appeared  with  authority  to  recall  them.  In  a  minute 


256  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

she  had  pulled  the  stockings  over  her  scrawny  little 
legs  and  slipped  Faith's  shoes  over  her  thick  little 
ankles. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  "but  won't  your 
folks  be  cross?" 

"No — and  I  don't  care  if  they  are,"  said  Faith.  "Do 
you  think  I  could  see  any  one  freezing  to  death  without 
helping  them  if  I  could?  It  wouldn't  be  right,  espe- 
cially when  my  father's  a  minister." 

"Will  you  want  them  back?  It's  awful  cold  down 
at  the  harbour  mouth — long  after  it's  warm  up  here," 
said  Lida  slyly. 

"No,  you're  to  keep  them,  of  course.  That  is  what 
I  meant  when  I  gave  them.  I  have  another  pair  of 
shoes  and  plenty  of  stockings." 

Lida  had  meant  to  stay  awhile  and  talk  to  the  girls 
about  many  things.  But  now  she  thought  she  had 
better  get  away  before  somebody  came  and  made  her 
yield  up  her  booty.  So  she  shuffled  off  through  the 
bitter  twilight,  in  the  noiseless,  shadowy  way  she  had 
slipped  in.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight  of  the 
manse  she  sat  down,  took  off  the  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  put  them  in  her  herring  basket.  She  had  no  inten- 
tion of  keeping  them  on  down  that  dirty  harbour  road. 
They  were  to  be  kept  good  for  gala  occasions.  Not 
another  little  girl  down  at  the  harbour  mouth  had  such 
fine  black  cashmere  stockings  and  such  smart,  almost 
new  shoes.  Lida  was  furnished  forth  for  the  summer. 
She  had  no  qualms  in  the  matter.  In  her  eyes  the 


A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE  257 

* 

manse  people  were  quite  fabulously  rich,  and  no  doubt 
those  girls  had  slathers  of  shoes  and  stockings.  Then 
Lida  ran  down  to  the  Glen  village  and  played  for  an 
hour  with  the  boys  before  Mr.  Flagg's  store,  splash- 
ing about  in  a  pool  of  slush  with  the  maddest  of  them, 
until  Mrs.  Elliott  came  along  and  bade  her  begone 
home. 

"I  don't  think,  Faith,  that  you  should  have  done 
that,"  said  Una,  a  little  reproachfully,  after  Lida  had 
gone.  "You'll  have  to  wear  your  good  boots  every  day 
now,  and  they'll  soon  scuff  out." 

"I  don't  care,"  cried  Faith,  still  in  the  fine  glow  of 
having  done  a  kindness  to  a  fellow  creature.  "It  isn't 
fair  that  I  should  have  two  pairs  of  shoes  and  poor 
little  Lida  Marsh  not  have  any.  Now  we  both  have  a 
pair.  You  know  perfectly  well,  Una,  that  father  said 
in  his  sermon  last  Sunday  that  there  was  no  real  happi- 
ness in  getting  or  having — only  in  giving.  And  it's  . 
true.  I  feel  far  happier  now  than  I  ever  did  in  my 
whole  life  before.  Just  think  of  Lida  walking  home 
this  very  minute  with  her  poor  little  feet  all  nice  and 
warm  and  comfy." 

"You  know  you  haven't  another  pair  of  black  cash- 
mere stockings,"  said  Una.  "Your  other  pair  were  so 
full  of  holes  that  Aunt  Martha  said  she  couldn't  darn 
them  any  more  and  she  cut  the  legs  up  for  stove 
dusters.  You've  nothing  but  those  two  pairs  of  striped 
stockings  you  hate  so." 

All  the  glow  and  uplift  went  out  of  Faith.     Her 


258  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

gladness  collapsed  like  a  pricked  balloon.  She  sat  for 
a  few  dismal  minutes  in  silence,  facing  the  conse- 
quences of  her  rash  act. 

"Oh,  Una,  I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said  dole- 
fully. "I  didn't  stop  to  think  at  all." 

The  striped  stockings  were  thick,  heavy,  coarse, 
ribbed  stockings  of  blue  and  red  which  Aunt  Martha 
had  knit  for  Faith  in  the  winter.  They  were  undoubt- 
edly hideous.  Faith  loathed  them  as  she  had  never 
loathed  anything  before.  Wear  them  she  certainly 
would  not.  They  were  still  unworn  in  her  bureau 
drawer. 

"You'll  have  to  wear  the  striped  stockings  after 
this,"  said  Una.  "Just  think  how  the  boys  in  school 
will  laugh  at  you.  You  know  how  they  laugh  at  Mamie 
Warren  for  her  striped  stockings  and  call  her  barber 
pole  and  yours  are  far  worse." 

"I  won't  wear  them,"  said  Faith.  "I'll  go  bare- 
footed first,  cold  as  it  is." 

"You  can't  go  barefooted  to  church  to-morrow. 
Think  what  people  would  say." 

"Then  I'll  stay  home." 

"You  can't.  You  know  very  well  Aunt  Martha  will 
make  you  go." 

Faith  did  know  this.  The  one  thing  on  which  Aunt 
Martha  troubled  herself  to  insist  was  that  they  must 
all  go  to  church,  rain  or  shine.  How  they  were 
dressed,  or  if  they  were  dressed  at  all,  never  concerned 
her.  But  go  they  must.  That  was  how  Aunt  Martha 


A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE          259 

had  been  brought  up,  seventy  years  ago,  and  that  was 
how  she  meant  to  bring  them  up. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  pair  you  can  lend  me,  Una?" 
said  poor  Faith  piteously. 

Una  shook  her  head.  "No,  you  know  I  only  have 
the  one  black  pair.  And  they're  so  tight  I  can  hardly 
get  them  on.  They  wouldn't  go  on  you.  Neither  would 
my  gray  ones.  Besides,  the  legs  of  them  are  all  darned 
and  darned." 

"I  won't  wear  those  striped  stockings,"  said  Faith 
stubbornly.  "The  feel  of  them  is  even  worse  than 
the  looks.  They  make  me  feel  as  if  my  legs  were  as 
big  as  barrels  and  they're  so  scratchy." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  do." 

"If  father  was  home  I'd  go  and  ask  him  to  get  me 
a  new  pair  before  the  store  closes.  But  he  won't  be 
home  till  too  late.  I'll  ask  him  Monday — and  I  won't 
go  to  church  to-morrow.  I'll  pretend  I'm  sick  and 
Aunt  Martha'll  have  to  let  me  stay  home." 

"That  would  be  acting  a  lie,  Faith,"  cried  Una. 
"You  can't  do  that.  You  know  it  would  be  dreadful. 
What  would  father  say  if  he  knew?  Don't  you  re- 
member how  he  talked  to  us  after  mother  died  and 
told  us  we  must  always  be  true,  no  matter  what  else  we 
failed  in.  He  said  we  must  never  tell  or  act  a  lie — 
he  said  he'd  trust  us  not  to.  You  can't  do  it,  Faith. 
Just  wear  the  striped  stockings.  It'll  only  be  for  once. 
Nobody  will  notice  them  in  church.  It  isn't  like  school. 


260  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

And  your  new  brown  dress  is  so  long  they  won't  show 
much.  Wasn't  it  lucky  Aunt  Martha  made  it  big,  so 
you'd  have  room  to  grow  in  it,  for  all  you  hated  it  so 
when  she  finished  it?" 

"I  won't  wear  those  stockings,"  repeated  Faith.  She 
uncoiled  her  bare,  white  legs  from  the  tombstone  and 
deliberately  walked  through  the  wet,  cold  grass  to  the 
bank  of  snow.  Setting  her  teeth,  she  stepped  upon  it 
and  stood  there. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  cried  Una  aghast.  "You'll 
catch  your  death  of  cold,  Faith  Meredith." 

"I'm  trying  to,"  answered  Faith.  "I  hope  I'll  catch 
a  fearful  cold  and  be  awful  sick  to-morrow.  Then  I 
won't  be  acting  a  lie.  I'm  going  to  stand  here  as  long 
as  I  can  bear  it." 

"But,  Faith,  you  might  really  die.  You  might  get 
pneumonia.  Please,  Faith,  don't.  Let's  go  into  the 
house  and  get  something  for  your  feet.  Oh,  here's 
Jerry.  I'm  so  thankful.  Jerry,  make  Faith  get  off 
that  snow.  Look  at  her  feet." 

"Holy  cats !  Faith,  what  are  you  doing?"  demanded 
Jerry.  "Are  you  crazy?" 

"No.    Go  away!"  snapped  Faith. 

"Then  are  you  punishing  yourself  for  something? 
It  isn't  right,  if  you  are.  You'll  be  sick." 

"I  want  to  be  sick.  I'm  not  punishing  myself.  Go 
away." 

"Where's  her  shoes  and  stockings?"  asked  Jerry 
of  Una. 


A  CHARITABLE  IMPULSE          261 

"She  gave  them  to  Lida  Marsh." 

"Lida  Marsh?    What  for?" 

"Because  Lida  had  none — and  her  feet  were  so  cold. 
And  now  she  wants  to  be  sick  so  that  she  won't  have 
to  go  to  church  to-morrow  and  wear  her  striped 
stockings.  But,  Jerry,  she  may  die." 

"Faith,"  said  Jerry,  "get  off  that  ice  bank  or  I'll  pull 
you  off." 

"Pull  away,"  dared  Faith. 

Jerry  sprang  at  her  and  caught  her  arms.  He  pulled 
one  way  and  Faith  pulled  another.  Una  ran  behind 
Faith  and  pushed.  Faith  stormed  at  Jerry  to  leave 
her  alone.  Jerry  stormed  back  at  her  not  to  be  a  dizzy 
idiot ;  and  Una  cried.  They  made  no  end  of  noise  and 
they  were  close  to  the  road  fence  of  the  graveyard. 
Henry  Warren  and  his  wife  drove  by  and  heard  and 
saw  them.  Very  soon  the  Glen  heard  that  the  manse 
children  had  been  having  an  awful  fight  in  the  grave- 
yard and  using  most  improper  language.  Meanwhile, 
Faith  had  allowed  herself  to  be  pulled  off  the  ice  be- 
cause her  feet  were  aching  so  sharply  that  she  was 
ready  to  get  off  any  way.  They  all  went  in  amiably 
and  went  to  bed.  Faith  slept  like  a  cherub  and  woke  in 
the  morning  without  a  trace  of  a  cold.  She  felt  that 
she  couldn't  feign  sickness  and  act  a  lie,  after  remem- 
being  that  long-ago  talk  with  her  father.  But  she 
was  still  as  fully  determined  as  ever  that  she  would 
not  wear  those  abominable  stockings  to  church. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
ANOTHER  SCANDAL  AND  ANOTHER  "EXPLANATION" 

FAITH  went  early  to  Sunday  School  and  was 
seated  in  the  corner  of  her  class  pew  before  any 
one  came.  Therefore  the  dreadful  truth  did  not  burst 
upon  any  one  until  Faith  left  the  class  pew  near  the 
door  to  walk  up  to  the  manse  pew  after  Sunday  School. 
The  church  was  already  half  filled  and  all  who  were 
sitting  near  the  aisle  saw  that  the  minister's  daughter 
had  boots  on  but  no  stockings! 

Faith's  new  brown  dress,  which  Aunt  Martha  had 
made  from  an  ancient  pattern,  was  absurdly  long  for 
her,  but  even  so  it  did  not  meet  her  boot  tops.  Two 
good  inches  of  bare  white  leg  showed  plainly. 

Faith  and  Carl  sat  alone  in  the  manse  pew.  Jerry 
had  gone  into  the  gallery  to  sit  with  a  chum  and  the 
Blythe  girls  had  taken  Una  with  them.  The  Meredith 
children  were  given  to  "sitting  all  over  the  church"  in 
this  fashion  and  a  great  many  people  thought  it  very 
improper.  The  gallery  especially,  where  irresponsible 
lads  congregated  and  were  known  to  whisper  and  sus- 
pected of  chewing  tobacco  during  service,  was  no 
place  for  a  son  of  the  manse.  But  Jerry  hated  the 
manse  pew  at  the  very  top  of  the  church,  under  the 

262 


ANOTHER  SCANDAL  263 

eyes  of  Elder  Clow  and  his  family.  He  escaped  from 
it  whenever  he  could. 

Carl,  absorbed  in  watching  a  spider  spinning  its  web 
at  the  window,  did  not  notice  Faith's  legs.  She  walked 
home  with  her  father  after  church  and  he  never  noticed 
them.  She  got  on  the  hated  striped  stockings  before 
Jerry  and  Una  arrived,  so  that  for  the  time  being  none 
of  the  occupants  of  the  manse  knew  what  she  had 
done.  But  nobody  else  in  Glen  St.  Mary  was  ignorant 
of  it.  The  few  who  had  not  seen  soon  heard.  Noth- 
ing else  was  talked  of  on  the  way  home  from  church. 
Mrs.  Alec  Davis  said  it  was  only  what  she  expected, 
and  the  next  thing  you  would  see  some  of  those  young 
ones  coming  to  church  with  no  clothes  at  all  on.  The 
president  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  decided  that  she  would 
bring  the  matter  up  at  the  next  Aid  meeting,  and  sug- 
gest that  they  wait  in  a  body  on  the  minister  and  pro- 
test. Miss  Cornelia  said  that  she,  for  her  part,  gave 
up.  There  was  no  use  worrying  over  the  manse  fry 
any  longer.  Even  Mrs.  Dr.  Blythe  felt  a  little  shocked, 
though  she  attributed  the  occurrence  solely  to  Faith's 
forgetfulness.  Susan  could  not  immediately  begin 
knitting  stockings  for  Faith  because  it  was  Sunday,  but 
she  had  one  set  up  before  any  one  else  was  out  of  bed 
at  Ingleside  the  next  morning. 

"You  need  not  tell  me  anything  but  that  it  was  old 
Martha's  fault,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  she  told  Anne.  "I 
suppose  that  poor  little  child  had  no  decent  stockings 
to  wear.  I  suppose  every  stocking  she  had  was  in 


264  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

holes,  as  you  know  very  well  they  generally  are.  And 
/  think,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  that  the  Ladies'  Aid  would  be 
better  employed  in  knitting  some  for  them  than  in  fight- 
ing over  the  new  carpet  for  the  pulpit  platform.  / 
am  not  a  Ladies'  Aider,  but  I  shall  knit  Faith  two  pairs 
of  stockings,  out  of  this  nice  black  yarn,  as  fast  as  my 
fingers  can  move  and  that  you  may  tie  to.  Never  shall 
I  forget  my  sensations,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  when  I  saw  a 
minister's  child  walking  up  the  aisle  of  our  church  with 
no  stockings  on.  I  really  did  not  know  what  way  to 
look." 

"And  the  church  was  just  full  of  Methodists  yester- 
day, too,"  groaned  Miss  Cornelia,  who  had  come  up 
to  the  Glen  to  do  some  shopping  and  run  into  Ingleside 
to  talk  the  affair  over.  "I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but 
just  as  sure  as  those  manse  children  do  something 
especially  awful  the  church  is  sure  to  be  crowded  with 
Methodists.  I  thought  Mrs.  Deacon  Hazard's  eyes 
would  drop  out  of  her  head.  When  she  came  out  of 
church  she  said,  'Well,  that  exhibition  was  no  more 
than  decent.  I  do  pity  the  Presbyterians.'  And  we 
just  had  to  take  it.  There  was  nothing  one  could  say." 

"There  was  something  7  could  have  said,  Mrs.  Dr. 
dear,  if  I  had  heard  her,"  said  Susan  grimly.  "I  would 
have  said,  for  one  thing,  that  in  my  opinion  clean  bare 
legs  were  quite  as  decent  as  holes.  And  I  would  have 
said,  for  another,  that  the  Presbyterians  did  not  feel 
greatly  in  need  of  pity  seeing  that  they  had  a  minister 
who  could  preach  and  the  Methodists  had  not.  1  could 


ANOTHER  SCANDAL  265 

have  squelched  Mrs.  Deacon  Hazard,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear, 
and  that  you  may  tie  to." 

"I  wish  Mr.  Meredith  didn't  preach  quite  so  weh 
and  looked  after  his  family  a  little  better,"  retorted 
Miss  Cornelia.  "He  could  at  least  glance  over  his 
children  before  they  went  to  church  and  see  that  they 
were  quite  properly  clothed.  I'm  tired  making  excuses 
for  him,  believe  me." 

Meanwhile,  Faith's  soul  was  being  harrowed  up  in 
Rainbow  Valley.  Mary  Vance  was  there  and,  as  usual, 
in  a  lecturing  mood.  She  gave  Faith  to  understand 
that  she  had  disgraced  herself  and  her  father  beyond 
redemption  and  that  she,  Mary  Vance,  was  done  with 
her.  "Everybody"  was  talking,  and  "everybody"  said 
the  same  thing. 

"I  simply  feel  that  I  can't  associate  with  you  any 
longer,"  she  concluded. 

"We  are  going  to  associate  with  her  then,"  cried 
Nan  Blythe.  Nan  secretly  thought  Faith  had  done  a 
rather  awful  thing,  but  she  wasn't  going  to  let  Mary 
Vance  run  matters  in  this  high-handed  fashion.  "And 
if  you  are  not  you  needn't  come  any  more  to  Rainbow 
Valley,  Miss  Vance." 

Nan  and  Di  both  put  their  arms  around  Faith  and 
glared  defiance  at  Mary.  The  latter  suddenly  crumpled 
up,  sat  down  on  a  stump  and  began  to  cry. 

"It  ain't  that  I  don't  want  to,"  she  wailed.  "But  if 
I  keep  in  with  Faith  people'll  be  saying  I  put  her  up  to 
doing  things.  Some  are  saying  it  now,  true's  you  live. 


266  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

I  can't  afford  to  have  such  things  said  of  me,  now  that 
I'm  in  a  respectable  place  and  trying  to  be  a  lady.  And 
/  never  went  bare-legged  to  church  in  my  toughest 
days.  I'd  never  have  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing. 
But  that  hateful  old  Kitty  Alec  says  Faith  has  never 
been  the  same  girl  since  that  time  I  stayed  in  the 
manse.  She  says  Cornelia  Elliott  will  live  to  rue  the 
day  she  took  me  in.  It  hurts  my  feelings,  I  tell  you. 
But  it's  Mr.  Meredith  I'm  really  worried  over." 

"I  think  you  needn't  worry  about  him,"  said  Di 
scornfully.  "It  isn't  likely  necessary.  Now,  Faith 
darling,  stop  crying  and  tell  us  why  you  did  it." 

Faith  explained  tearfully.  The  Blythe  girls  sym- 
pathized with  her,  and  even  Mary  Vance  agreed  that  it 
was  a  hard  position  to  be  in.  But  Jerry,  on  whom  the 
thing  came  like  a  thunderbolt,  refused  to  be  placated. 
So  this  was  what  some  mysterious  hints  he  had  got  in 
school  that  day  meant!  He  marched  Faith  and  Una 
home  without  ceremony,  and  the  Good-Conduct  Club 
held  an  immediate  session  in  the  graveyard  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  Faith's  case. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  was  any  harm,"  said  Faith  defi- 
antly. "Not  much  of  my  legs  showed.  It  wasn't 
wrong  and  it  didn't  hurt  anybody." 

"It  will  hurt  dad.  You  know  it  will.  You  know 
people  blame  him  whenever  we  do  anything  queer." 

"I  didn't  think  of  that,"  muttered  Faith. 

"That's  just  the  trouble.  You  didn't  think  and  you 
should  have  thought.  That's  what  our  Club  is  for — 


ANOTHER  SCANDAL  267 

to  bring  us  up  and  make  us  think.  We  promised  we'd 
always  stop  and  think  before  doing  things.  You  didn't 
and  you've  got  to  be  punished,  Faith — and  real  hard, 
too.  You'll  wear  those  striped  stockings  to  school  for 
a  week  for  punishment." 

"Oh,  Jerry.  Won't  a  day  do — two  days?  Not  a 
whole  week !" 

"Yes,  a  whole  week,"  said  inexorable  Jerry.  "It  is 
fair — ask  Jem  Blythe  if  it  isn't." 

Faith  felt  she  would  rather  submit  than  ask  Jem 
Blythe  about  such  a  matter.  She  was  beginning  to 
realize  that  her  offence  was  a  quite  shameful  one. 

"I'll  do  it,  then,"  she  muttered,  a  little  sulkily. 

"You're  getting  off  easy,"  said  Jerry  severely.  "And 
no  matter  how  we  punish  you  it  won't  help  father. 
People  will  always  think  you  just  did  it  for  mischief, 
and  they'll  blame  father  for  not  stopping  it.  We  can 
never  explain  it  to  everybody." 

This  aspect  of  the  case  weighed  on  Faith's  mind. 
Her  own  condemnation  she  could  bear,  but  it  tortured 
her  that  her  father  should  be  blamed.  If  people  knew 
the  true  facts  of  the  case  they  would  not  blame 
him.  But  how  could  she  make  them  known  to  all  the 
world?  Getting  up  in  church,  as  she  had  once  done, 
and  explaining  the  matter  was  out  of  the  question. 
Faith  had  heard  from  Mary  Vance  how  the  congrega- 
tion had  looked  upon  that  performance  and  realized 
that  she  must  not  repeat  it.  Faith  worried  over  the 
problem  for  half  a  week.  Then  she  had  an  .'t 


268  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

and  promptly  acted  upon  it.  She  spent  that  evening 
in  the  garret,  with  a  lamp  and  an  exercise  book,  writ- 
ing busily,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  shining  eyes.  It 
was  the  very  thing!  How  clever  she  was  to  have 
thought  of  it!  It  would  put  everything  right  and  ex- 
plain everything  and  yet  cause  no  scandal.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock  when  she  had  finished  to  her  satisfaction 
and  crept  down  to  bed,  dreadfully  tired,  but  perfectly 
happy. 

In  a  few  days  the  little  weekly  published  in  the  Glen 
under  the  name  of  The  Journal  came  out  as  usual,  and 
the  Glen  had  another  sensation.  A  letter  signed  "Faith 
Meredith"  occupied  a  prominent  place  on  the  front 
page  and  ran  as  follows : — 

"TO  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN  : 

I  want  to  explain  to  everybody  how  it  was  I  came  to  go 
to  church  without  stockings  on,  so  that  everybody  will  know 
that  father  was  not  to  blame  one  bit  for  it,  and  the  old  gos- 
sips need  not  say  he  is,  because  it  is  not  true.  I  gave  my  only 
pair  of  black  stockings  to  Lida  Marsh,  because  she  hadn't 
any  and  her  poor  little  feet  were  awful  cold  and  I  was  so 
sorry  for  her.  No  child  ought  to  have  to  go  without  shoes 
and  stockings  in  a  Christian  community  before  the  snow  is 
all  gone,  and  I  think  the  W.  F.  M.  S.  ought  to  have  given 
her  stockings.  Of  course,  I  know  they  are  sending  things 
to  the  little  heathen  children,  and  that  is  all  right  and  a  kind 
thing  to  do.  But  the  little  heathen  children  have  lots  more 
warm  weather  than  we  have,  and  1  think  the  women  of  our 
church  ought  to  look  after  Lida  and  not  leave  it  all  to  me. 
When  I  gave  her  my  stockings  I  forgot  they  were  the  only 
black  pair  I  had  without  holes,  but  I  am  glad  I  did  give  them 
to  her,  because  my  conscience  would  have  been  uncom- 


ANOTHER  SCANDAL  269 

fortable  if  I  hadn't.  When  she  had  gone  away,  looking  so 
proud  and  happy,  the  poor  little  thing,  I  remembered  that 
all  I  had  to  wear  were  the  horrid  red  and  blue  things  Aunt 
Martha  knit  last  winter  for  me  out  of  some  yarn  that  Mrs. 
Joseph  Burr  of  Upper  Glen  sent  us.  It  was  dreadfully 
coarse  yarn  and  all  knots,  and  I  never  saw  any  of  Mrs. 
Burr's  own  children  wearing  things  made  of  such  yarn.  But 
Mary  Vance  says  Mrs.  Burr  gives  the  minister  stuff  that  she 
can't  use  or  eat  herself,  and  thinks  it  ought  to  go  as  part 
of  the  salary  her  husband  signed  to  pay,  but  never  does. 

I  just  couldn't  bear  to  wear  those  hateful  stockings.  They 
were  so  ugly  and  rough  and  felt  so  scratchy.  Everybody 
would  have  made  fun  of  me.  I  thought  at  first  I'd  pretend 
I  was  sick  a~d  not  go  to  church  next  day,  but  I  decided  I 
couldn't  do  that,  because  it  would  be  acting  a  lie,  and  father 
told  us  after  mother  died  that  was  something  we  must  never, 
never  do.  It  is  just  as  bad  to  act  a  lie  as  to  tell  one,  though 
I  know  some  people,  right  here  in  the  Glen,  who  act  them, 
and  never  seem  to  feel  a  bit  bad  about  it.  I  will  not  men- 
tion any  names,  but  I  know  who  they  are  and  so  does  father. 

Then  I  tried  my  best  to  catch  cold  and  really  be  sick  by 
standing  on  the  snowbank  in  the  Methodist  graveyard  with 
my  bare  feet  until  Jerry  pulled  me  off.  But  it  didn't  hurt 
me  a  bit  and  so  I  couldn't  get  out  of  going  to  church.  So 
I  just  decided  I  would  put  my  boots  on  and  go  that  way.  I 
can't  see  why  it  was  so  wrong  and  I  was  so  careful  to  wash  my 
legs  just  as  clean  as  my  face,  but,  anyway,  father  wasn't  to 
blame  for  it.  He  was  in  the  study  thinking  of  his  sermon  and 
other  heavenly  things,  and  I  kept  out  of  his  way  before  I 
went  to  Sunday  school.  Father  does  not  look  at  people's 
legs  in  church,  so  of  course  he  did  not  notice  mine,  but  all 
the  gossips  did  and  talked  about  it,  and  that  is  why  I  am 
writing  this  letter  to  the  Journal  to  explain.  I  suppose  I 
did  very  wrong,  since  everybody  says  so,  and  I  am  sorry 
and  I  am  wearing  those  awful  stockings  to  punish  tn^elf, 
although  father  bought  me  two  nice  new  black  pairs  as  soon  as 


270  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Mr.  Flagg's  store  opened  on  Monday  morning.  But  it  was- 
all  my  fault,  and  if  people  blame  father  for  it  after  they  read 
this  they  are  not  Christians  and  so  I  do  not  mind  what  they 
say. 

There  is  another  thing  I  want  to  explain  about  before  I 
stop.  Mary  Vance  told  me  that  Mr.  Evan  Boyd  is  blaming 
the  Lew  Baxters  for  stealing  potatoes  out  of  his  field  last  fall. 
They  did  not  touch  his  potatoes.  They  are  very  poor,  but 
they  are  honest.  It  was  us  did  it — Jerry  and  Carl  and  I. 
Una  was  not  with  us  at  the  time.  We  never  thought  it  was 
stealing.  We  just  wanted  a  few  potatoes  to  cook  over  a  fire 
in  Rainbow  Valley  one  evening  to  eat  with  our  fried  trout. 
Mr.  Boyd's  field  was  the  nearest,  just  between  the  valley  and 
the  village,  so  we  climbed  over  his  fence  and  pulled  up  some 
stalks.  The  potatoes  were  awful  small,  because  Mr.  Boyd 
did  not  put  enough  fertilizer  on  them  and  we  had  to  pull 
up  a  lot  of  stalks  before  we  got  enough,  and  then  they  were 
not  much  bigger  than  marbles.  Walter  and  Di  Blythe  helped 
us  eat  them,  but  they  did  not  come  along  until  we  had  them 
cooked  and  did  not  know  where  we  got  them,  so  they  were 
not  to  blame  at  all,  only  us.  We  didn't  mean  any  harm,  but 
if  it  was  stealing  we  are  very  sorry  and  we  will  pay  Mr. 
Boyd  for  them  if  he  will  wait  until  we  grow  up.  We  never 
have  any  money  now  because  we  are  not  big  enough  to  earn 
any,  and  Aunt  Martha  says  it  takes  every  cent  of  poor  father's 
salary,  even  when  it  is  paid  up  regularly — and  it  isn't  often — 
to  run  this  house.  But  Mr.  Boyd  must  not  blame  the  Lew 
Baxters  any  more,  when  they  were  quite  innocent,  and  give 
them  a  bad  name. 

Yours  respectfully, 

FAITH  MEREDITH." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
Miss  CORNELIA  GETS  A  NEW  POINT  OF  VIEW 


,  after  I'm  dead  I'm  going  to  come  back 
to  earth  every  time  when  the  daffodils  blow  in 
this  garden,"  said  Anne  rapturously.  "Nobody  may 
see  me,  but  I'll  be  here.  If  anybody  is  in  the  garden 
at  the  time  —  I  think  I'll  come  on  an  evening  just  like 
this,  but  it  might  be  just  at  dawn  —  a  lovely,  pale-pinky 
spiing  dawn  —  they'll  just  see  the  daffodils  nodding 
wildly  as  if  an  extra  gust  of  wind  had  blown  past  them, 
but  it  will  be  /." 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  you  will  not  be  thinking  of 
flaunting  worldly  things  like  daffies  after  you  are 
dead,"  said  Susan.  "And  I  do  no  t  believe  in  ghosts, 
seen  or  unseen." 

"Oh,  Susan,  I  shall  not  be  a  ghost  !  That  has  such 
a  horrible  sound.  I  shall  just  be  me.  And  I  shall  run. 
around  in  the  twilight,  whether  it  is  of  morn  or  eve, 
and  see  all  the  spots  I  love.  Do  you  remember  how 
badly  I  felt  when  I  left  our  little  House  of  Dreams, 
Susan  ?  I  thought  I  could  never  love  Ingleside  so  well. 
But  I  do.  I  love  every  inch  of  the  ground  and  every 
stick  and  stone  on  it." 

"I  am  rather  fond  of  the  place  myself,"  said  Susan, 
271 


272  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

who  would  have  died  if  she  had  been  removed  from  it, 
"but  we  must  not  set  our  affections  too  much  on 
earthly  things,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear.  There  are  such  things 
as  fires  and  earthquakes.  We  should  always  be  pre- 
pared. The  Tom  McAllisters  over-harbour  were 
burned  out  three  nights  ago.  Some  say  Tom  McAllis- 
ter set  the  house  on  fire  himself  to  get  the  insurance. 
That  may  or  may  not  be.  But  I  advise  the  doctor  to 
have  our  chimneys  seen  to  at  once.  An  ounce  of  pre- 
vention is  worth  a  pound  of  cure.  But  I  see  Mrs. 
Marshall  Elliott  coming  in  at  the  gate,  looking  as  if 
she  had  been  sent  for  and  couldn't  go." 

"Anne,  dearie,  have  you  seen  the  Journal  to-day?" 

Miss  Cornelia's  voice  was  trembling,  partly  from 
emotion,  partly  from  the  fact  that  she  had  hurried 
up  from  the  store  too  fast  and  lost  her  breath. 

Anne  bent  over  the  daffodils  to  hide  a  smile.  She 
and  Gilbert  had  laughed  heartily  and  heartlessly  over 
the  front  page  of  the  Journal  that  day,  but  she  knew 
that  to  dear  Miss  Cornelia  it  was  almost  a  tragedy,  and 
she  must  not  wound  her  feelings  by  any  display  of 
levity. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful?  What  is  to  be  done?"  asked 
Miss  Cornelia  despairingly.  Miss  Cornelia  had  vowed 
that  she  was  done  with  worrying  over  the  pranks  of 
the  manse  children,  but  she  went  on  worrying  just  the 
same. 

Anne  led  the  way  to  the  veranda,  where  Susan  was 
knitting,  with  Shirley  and  Rilla  conning  their  primers 


MISS  CORNELIA'S  NEW  VIEW      273 

on  either  side.  Susan  was  already  on  her  second  pair 
of  stockings  for  Faith.  Susan  never  worried  over 
poor  humanity.  She  did  what  in  her  lay  for  its  better- 
ment and  serenely  left  the  rest  to  the  Higher  Powers. 

"Cornelia  Elliott  thinks  she  was  born  to  run  this 
world,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  she  had  once  said  to  Anne,  "and 
so  she  is  always  in  a  stew  over  something.  I  have 
never  thought  7  was,  and  so  I  go  calmly  along.  Not 
but  what  it  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  that  things 
might  be  run  a  little  better  than  they  are.  But  it  is 
not  for  us  poor  worms  of  the  dust  to  nourish  such 
thoughts.  They  only  make  us  uncomfortable  and  do 
not  get  us  anywhere." 

"I  don't  see  that  anything  can  be  done — now — "  said 
Anne,  pulling  out  a  nice,  cushiony  chair  for  Miss 
Cornelia.  "But  how  in  the  world  did  Mr.  Vickers 
allow  that  letter  to  be  printed  ?  Surely  he  should  have 
known  better." 

"Why,  he's  away,  Anne,  dearie, — he's  been  away  to 
New  Brunswick  for  a  week.  And  that  young  scalawag 
of  a  Joe  Vickers  is  editing  the  Journal  in  his  absence. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Vickers  would  never  have  put  it  in, 
even  if  he  is  a  Methodist,  but  Joe  would  just  think  it 
a  good  joke.  As  you  say,  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any- 
thing to  be  done  now,  only  live  it  down.  But  if  I 
ever  get  Joe  Vickers  cornered  somewhere  I'll  give  him 
a  talking  to  he  won't  forget  in  a  hurry.  I  wanted 
Marshall  to  stop  our  subscription  to  the  Journal  in- 
stantly, but  he  only  laughed  and  said  that  to-day's  issue 


274  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

was  the  only  one  that  had  had  anything  readable  in  it 
for  a  year.  Marshall  never  will  take  anything  seri- 
ously— just  like  a  man.  Fortunately,  Evan  Boyd  is 
like  that,  too.  He  takes  it  as  a  joke  and  is  laughing 
all  over  the  place  about  it.  And  he's  another  Meth- 
odist! As  for  Mrs.  Burr  of  the  Upper  Glen,  of  course 
ihe  will  be  furious  and  they  will  leave  the  church.  Not 
that  it  will  be  a  great  loss  from  any  point  of  view.  The 
Methodists  are  quite  welcome  to  them." 

"It  serves  Mrs.  Burr  right,"  said  Susan,  who  had 
an  old  feud  with  the  lady  in  question  and  had  been 
hugely  tickled  over  the  reference  to  her  in  Faith's  let- 
ter. "She  will  find  that  she  will  not  be  able  to  cheat 
the  Methodist  parson  out  of  his  salary  with  bad  yarn." 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  there's  not  much  hope  of  things 
getting  any  better,"  said  Miss  Cornelia  gloomily.  "As 
long  as  Mr.  Meredith  was  going  to  see  Rosemary  West 
I  did  hope  the  manse  would  soon  have  a  proper  mis- 
tress. But  that  is  all  off.  I  suppose  she  wouldn't  have 
him  on  account  of  the  children — at  least,  everybody 
seems  to  think  so." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  asked  her,"  said  Susan, 
who  could  not  conceive  of  any  one  refusing  a  minister. 

"Well,  nobody  knows  anything  about  that.  But  one 
thing  is  certain,  he  doesn't  go  there  any  longer.  And 
Rosemary  didn't  look  well  all  the  spring.  I  hope  her 
visit  to  Kingsport  will  do  her  good.  She's  been  gone 
for  a  month  and  will  stay  another  month,  I  understand. 
I  can't  remember  when  Rosemary  was  away  from 


MISS  CORNELIA'S  NEW  VIEW      275 

home  before.  She  and  Ellen  could  never  bear  to  be 
parted.  But  I  understand  Ellen  insisted  on  her  going 
this  time.  And  meanwhile  Ellen  and  Norman  Douglas 
are  warming  up  the  old  soup." 

"Is  that  really  so  ?"  asked  Anne,  laughing.  "I  heard 
a  rumour  of  it,  but  I  hardly  believed  it." 

"Believe  it!  You  may  believe  it  all  right,  Anne 
dearie.  Nobody  is  in  ignorance  of  it.  Norman  Doug- 
las never  left  anybody  in  doubt  as  to  his  intentions 
in  regard  to  anything.  He  always  did  his  courting 
before  the  public.  He  told  Marshall  that  he  hadn't 
thought  about  Ellen  for  years,  but  the  first  time  he 
went  to  church  last  fall  he  saw  her  and  fell  in  love 
with  her  all  over  again.  He  said  he'd  clean  forgot  how 
handsome  she  was.  He  hadn't  seen  her  for  twenty 
years,  if  you  can  believe  it.  Of  course  he  never  went 
to  church,  and  Ellen  never  went  anywhere  else  round 
here.  Oh,  we  all  know  what  Norman  means,  but  what 
Ellen  means  is  a  different  matter.  I  shan't  take  it  upon 
me  to  predict  whether  it  will  be  a  match  or  not." 

"He  jilted  her  once — but  it  seems  that  does  not 
count  with  some  people,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,"  Susan  re- 
marked rather  acidly. 

"He  jilted  her  in  a  fit  of  temper  and  repented  it  all 
his  life,"  said  Miss  Cornelia.  "That  is  different  from 
a  cold-blooded  jilting.  For  my  part,  I  never  detested 
Norman  as  some  folks  do.  He  could  never  over-crow 
me.  I  do  wonder  what  started  him  coming  to  church. 
I  have  never  been  able  to  believe  Mrs.  Wilson's  story 


276  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

that  Faith  Meredith  went  there  and  bullied  him  into  it. 
I've  always  intended  to  ask  Faith  herself,  but  I've 
never  happened  to  think  of  it  just  when  I  saw  her. 
What  influence  could  she  have  over  Norman  Douglas  ? 
He  was  in  the  store  when  I  left,  bellowing  with  laugh- 
ter over  that  scandalous  letter.  You  could  have  heard 
him  at  Four  Winds  Point.  'The  greatest  girl  in  the 
world,'  he  was  shouting.  'She's  that  full  of  spunk 
she's  bursting  with  it.  And  all  the  old  grannies  want 
to  tame  her,  darn  them.  But  they'll  never  be  able  to 
do  it — never!  They  might  as  well  try  to  drown  a 
fish.  Boyd,  see  that  you  put  more  fertilizer  on  your 
potatoes  next  year.  Ho,  ho,  ho !'  And  then  he  laughed 
till  the  roof  shook." 

"Mr.  Douglas  pays  well  to  the  salary,  at  least,"  re- 
marked Susan. 

"Oh,  Norman  isn't  mean  in  some  ways.  He'd  give 
a  thousand  without  blinking  a  lash,  and  roar  like  a  Bull 
of  Bashan  if  he  had  to  pay  five  cents  too  much  for 
anything.  Besides,  he  likes  Mr.  Meredith's  sermons, 
and  Norman  Douglas  was  always  willing  to  shell  out 
if  he  got  his  brains  tickled  up.  There  is  no  more 
Christianity  about  him  than  there  is  about  a  black, 
naked  heathen  in  Africa  and  never  will  be.  But  he's 
clever  and  well  read  and  he  judges  sermons  as  he 
would  lectures.  Anyhow,  it's  well  he  backs  up  Mr. 
Meredith  and  the  children  as  he  does,  for  they'll  need 
friends  more  than  ever  after  this.  I  am  tired  of  mak- 
ing excuses  for  them,  believe  me" 


MISS  CORNELIA'S  NEW  VIEW      277 

"Do  you  know,  dear  Miss  Cornelia,"  said  Anne  seri- 
ously, "I  think  we  have  all  been  making  too  many 
excuses.  It  is  very  foolish  and  we  ought  to  stop  it. 
I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  I'd  like  to  do.  I  shan't 
do  it,  of  course" — Anne  had  noted  a  glint  of  alarm  in 
Susan's  eye — "it  would  be  too  unconventional,  and  we 
must  be  conventional  or  die,  after  we  reach  what  is 
supposed  to  be  a  dignified  age.  But  I'd  like  to  do  it. 
I'd  like  to  call  a  meeting  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and 
W.  M.  S.  and  the  Girls'  Sewing  Society,  and  include 
in  the  audience  all  and  any  Methodists  who  have  been 
criticising  the  Merediths — although  I  do  think  if  we 
Presbyterians  stopped  criticising  and  excusing  we 
would  find  that  other  denominations  would  trouble 
themselves  very  little  about  our  manse  folks.  I  would 
say  to  them,  'Dear  Christian  friends' — with  marked 
emphasis  on  'Christian' — I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  and  I  want  to  say  it  good  and  hard,  that  you  may 
take  it  home  and  repeat  it  to  your  families.  You  Meth- 
odists need  not  pity  us,  and  we  Presbyterians  need 
not  pity  ourselves.  We  are  not  going  to  do  it  any 
more.  And  we  are  going  to  say,  boldly  and  truthfully, 
:o  all  critics  and  sympathizers,  'We  are  proud  of  our 
minister  and  his  family.  Mr.  Meredith  is  the  best 
preacher  Glen  St.  Mary  Church  ever  had.  Moreover, 
he  is  a  sincere,  earnest  teacher  of  truth  and  Christian 
charity.  He  is  a  faithful  friend,  a  judicious  pastor  in 
all  essentials,  and  a  refined,  scholarly,  well-bred  man. 
His  family  are  worthy  of  him.  Gerald  Meredith  is 


278  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

the  cleverest  pupil  in  the  Glen  school,  and  Mr.  Hazard 
says  that  he  is  destined  to  a  brilliant  career.  He  is  a 
manly,  honourable,  truthful  little  fellow.  Faith  Mere- 
dith is  a  beauty,  and  as  inspiring  and  original  as  she 
is  beautiful.  There  is  nothing  commonplace  about  her. 
All  the  other  girls  in  the  Glen  put  together  haven't  the 
vim,  and  wit,  and  joyousness  and  'spunk'  she  has.  She 
has  not  an  enemy  in  the  world.  Every  one  who  knows 
her  loves  her.  Of  how  many,  children  or  grown-ups, 
can  that  be  said  ?  Una  Meredith  is  sweetness  personi- 
fied. She  will  make  a  most  lovable  woman.  Carl 
Meredith,  with  his  love  for  ants  and  frogs  and  spiders, 
will  some  day  be  a  naturalist  whom  all  Canada — nay, 
all  the  world,  will  delight  to  honour.  Do  you  know 
of  any  other  family  in  the  Glen,  or  out  of  it,  of  whom 
all  these  things  can  be  said?  Away  with  shamefaced 
excuses  and  apologies.  We  rejoice  in  our  minister 
and  his  splendid  boys  and  girls !" 

Anne  stopped,  partly  because  she  was  out  of  breath 
after  her  vehement  speech  and  partly  because  she  could 
not  trust  herself  to  speak  further  in  view  of  Miss  Cor- 
nelia's face.  That  good  lady  was  staring  helplessly 
at  Anne,  apparently  engulfed  in  billows  of  new  ideas. 
But  she  came  up  with  a  gasp  and  struck  out  for  shore 
gallantly. 

"Anne  Blythe,  I  wish  you  would  call  that  meeting 
and  say  just  that !  You've  made  me  ashamed  of  my- 
self, for  one,  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  refuse  to  admit 
it.  Of  course,  that  is  how  we  should  have  talked — 


MISS  CORNELIA'S  NEW  VIEW      279 

especially  to  the  Methodists.  And  it's  every  word  of 
it  true — every  word.  We've  just  been  shutting  our 
eyes  to  the  big  worth-while  things  and  squinting  them 
on  the  little  things  that  don't  really  matter  a  pin's 
worth.  Oh,  Anne,  dearie,  I  can  see  a  thing  when  it's 
hammered  into  my  head.  No  more  apologizing  for 
Cornelia  Marshall !  /  shall  hold  my  head  up  after  this, 
believe  me, — though  I  may  talk  things  over  with  you 
as  usual  just  to  relieve  my  feelings  if  the  Merediths 
do  any  more  startling  stunts.  Even  that  letter  I  felt 
so  bad  about — why,  it's  only  a  good  joke  after  all,  as 
Norman  says.  Not  many  girls  would  have  been  cute 
enough  to  think  of  writing  it — and  all  punctuated  so 
nicely  and  not  one  word  misspelled.  Just  let  me  hear 
any  Methodist  say  one  word  about  it — though  all 
the  same  I'll  never  forgive  Joe  Vickers — believe  me! 
Where  are  the  rest  of  your  small  fry  to-night?" 

"Walter  and  the  twins  are  in  Rainbow  Valley.  Jem 
is  studying  in  the  garret." 

"They  are  all  crazy  about  Rainbow  Valley.  Mary 
Vance  thinks  it's  the  only  place  in  the  world.  She'd 
be  off  up  here  every  evening  if  I'd  let  her.  But  I  don't 
encourage  her  in  gadding.  Besides,  I  miss  the  creature 
when  she  isn't  around,  Anne  dearie.  I  never  thought 
I'd  get  so  fond  of  her.  Not  but  what  I  see  her  faults 
and  try  to  correct  them.  But  she  has  never  said  one 
saucy  word  to  me  since  she  came  to  my  house  and  she 
is  a  great  help — for  when  all  is  said  and  done,  Anne 
dearie,  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  once  was,  and  there  is 


28o  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

no  sense  in  denying  it.  I  was  fifty-nine  my  last  birth- 
day. I  don't  feel  it,  but  there  is  no  gainsaying  the 
Family  Bible." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
A  SACRED  CONCERT 

IN  spite  of  Miss  Cornelia's  new  point  of  view  she 
could  not  help  feeling  a  little  disturbed  over  the  next 
performance  of  the  manse  children.  In  public  she  car- 
ried off  the  situation  splendidly,  saying  to  all  the 
gossips  the  substance  of  what  Anne  had  said  in  daffodil 
time,  and  saying  it  so  pointedly  and  forcibly  that  her 
hearers  found  themselves  feeling  rather  foolish  and 
began  to  think  that,  after  all,  they  were  making  too 
much  of  a  childish  prank.  But  in  private  Miss  Cor- 
nelia allowed  herself  the  relief  of  bemoaning  it  to 
Anne. 

"Anne,  dearie,  they  had  a  concert  in  the  graveyard 
last  Thursday  evening,  while  the  Methodist  prayer 
meeting  was  going  on.  There  they  sat,  on  Hezekiah 
Pollock's  tombstone,  and  sang  for  a  solid  hour.  Of 
course,  I  understand  it  was  mostly  hymns  they  sang, 
and  it  wouldn't  have  been  quite  so  bad  if  they'd  done 
nothing  else.  But  I'm  told  they  finished  up  with  Polly 
Wolly  Doodle  at  full  length — and  that  just  when 
Deacon  Baxter  was  praying." 

"I  was  there  that  night,"  said  Susan,  "and,  although 
I  did  not  say  anything  about  it  to  you,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear, 

281 


282  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  a  great  pity  they 
picked  that  particular  evening.  It  was  truly  blood- 
curdling to  hear  them  sitting  there  in  that  abode  of  the 
dead,  shouting  that  frivolous  song  at  the  tops  of  their 
lungs." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  were  doing  in  a  Methodist 
prayer  meeting,"  said  Miss  Cornelia  acidly. 

"I  have  never  found  that  Methodism  was  catching," 
retorted  Susan  stiffly.  "And,  as  I  was  going  to  say 
when  I  was  interrupted,  badly  as  I  felt,  I  did  not  give 
in  to  the  Methodists.  When  Mrs.  Deacon  Baxter  said, 
as  we  came  out,  'What  a  disgraceful  exhibition!'  / 
said,  looking  her  fairly  in  the  eye,  'They  are  all  beauti- 
ful singers  and  none  of  your  choir,  Mrs.  Baxter,  ever 
bother  themselves  coming  out  to  your  prayer  meeting, 
it  seems.  Their  voices  appear  to  be  in  tune  only  on 
Sundays!'  She  was  quite  meek  and  I  felt  that  I  had 
snubbed  her  properly.  But  I  could  have  done  it  much 
more  thoroughly,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  if  only  they  had  left 
out  Polly  Wolly  Doodle,  It  is  truly  terrible  to  think 
of  that  being  sung  in  a  graveyard." 

"Some  of  those  dead  folks  sang  Polly  Wolly  Doodle 
when  they  were  living,  Susan.  Perhaps  they  like  to 
hear  it  yet,"  suggested  Gilbert. 

Miss  Cornelia  looked  at  him  reproachfully  and  made 
up  her  mind  that,  on  some  future  occasion,  she  would 
hint  to  Anne  that  the  doctor  should  be  admonished  not 
to  say  such  things.  They  might  injure  his  practice. 
People  might  get  it  into  their  heads  that  he  wasn't 


A  SACRED  CONCERT  283 

orthodox.  To  be  sure,  Marshall  said  even  worse 
things  habitually,  but  then  he  was  not  a  public  man. 

"I  understand  that  their  father  was  in  his  study  all 
the  time,  with  his  windows  open,  but  never  noticed 
them  at  all.  Of  course,  he  was  lost  in  a  book  as  usual. 
But  /  spoke  to  him  about  it  yesterday,  when  he  called. 

"How  could  you  dare,  Mrs.  Marshall  Elliott?" 
asked  Susan  rebukingly. 

"Dare !  It's  time  somebody  dared  something.  Why, 
they  say  he  knows  nothing  about  that  letter  of  Faith's 
to  the  Journal  because  nobody  liked  to  mention  it  to 
him.  He  never  looks  at  a  Journal  of  course.  But  I 
thought  he  ought  to  know  of  this  to  prevent  any  such 
performances  in  future.  He  said  he  would  'discuss  it 
with  them.'  But  of  course  he'd  never  think  of  it  again 
after  he  got  out  of  our  gate.  That  man  has  no  sense  of 
humour,  Anne,  believe  me.  He  preached  last  Sunday 
on  'How  to  Bring  up  Children.'  A  beautiful  sermon 
it  was,  too — and  everybody  in  church  thinking  'what 
a  pity  you  can't  practice  what  you  preach.' ' 

Miss  Cornelia  did  Mr.  Meredith  an  injustice  in 
thinking  he  would  so  soon  forget  what  she  had  told 
him.  He  went  home  much  disturbed  and  when  the 
children  came  from  Rainbow  Valley  that  night,  at  a 
much  later  hour  than  they  should  have  been  prowling 
in  it,  he  called  them  into  his  study. 

They  went  in,  somewhat  awed.  It  was  such  an  un- 
usual thing  for  their  father  to  do.  What  could  he 
be  going  to  say  to  them  ?  They  racked  their  memories 


284  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

for  any  recent  transgression  of  sufficient  importance, 
but  could  not  recall  any.  Carl  had  spilled  a  saucer ful 
of  jam  on  Mrs.  Peter  Flagg's  silk  dress  two  evenings 
before,  when,  at  Aunt  Martha's  invitation,  she  had 
stayed  to  supper.  But  Mr.  Meredith  had  not  noticed 
it,  and  Mrs.  Flagg,  who  was  a  kindly  soul,  had  made 
no  fuss.  Besides,  Carl  had  been  punished  by  having 
to  wear  Una's  dress  all  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Una  suddenly  thought  that  perhaps  her  father  meant 
to  tell  them  that  he  was  going  to  marry  Miss  West. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  violently  and  her  legs  trembled. 
Then  she  saw  that  Mr.  Meredith  looked  very  stern  and 
sorrowful.  No,  it  could  not  be  that. 

"Children,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  "I  have  heard  some- 
thing that  has  pained  me  very  much.  Is  it  true  that 
you  sat  out  in  the  graveyard  all  last  Thursday  eve- 
ning and  sang  ribald  songs  while  a  prayer  meeting  was 
being  held  in  the  Methodist  church  ?" 

"Great  Cesaer,  dad,  we  forgot  all  about  it  being  their 
prayer  meeting  night,"  exclaimed  Jerry  in  dismay. 

"Then  it  is  true — you  did  do  this  thing  ?" 

"Why,  dad,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  ribald 
songs.  We  sang  hymns — it  was  a  sacred  concert,  you 
know.  What  harm  was  that?  I  tell  you  we  never 
thought  about  it's  being  Methodist  prayer  meeting 
night.  They  used  to  have  their  meeting  Tuesday 
nights  and  since  they've  changed  to  Thursdays  it's 
hard  to  remember." 


A  SACRED  CONCERT  285 

"Did  you  sing  nothing  but  hymns  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Jerry,  turning  red,  "we  did  sing  Polly 
Wolly  Doodle  at  the  last.  Faith  said,  'Let's  have 
something  cheerful  to  wind  up  with/  But  we  didn't 
mean  any  harm,  father — truly  we  didn't." 

"The  concert  was  my  idea,  father,"  said  Faith, 
afraid  that  Mr.  Meredith  might  blame  Jerry  too  much. 
"You  know  the  Methodists  themselves  had  a  sacred 
concert  in  their  church  three  Sunday  nights  ago.  I 
thought  it  would  be  good  fun  to  get  one  up  in  imitation 
of  it.  Only  they  had  prayers  at  theirs,  and  we  left 
that  part  out,  because  we  heard  that  people  thought  it 
awful  for  us  to  pray  in  a  graveyard.  You  were  sitting 
in  here  all  the  time,"  she  added,  "and  never  said  a  word 
to  us." 

"I  did  not  notice  what  you  were  doing.  That  is  no 
excuse  for  me,  of  course.  I  am  more  to  blame  than 
you, — I  realize  that.  But  why  did  you  sing  that 
foolish  song  at  the  end  ?" 

"We  didn't  think,"  muttered  Jerry,  feeling  that  it 
was  a  very  lame  excuse,  seeing  that  he  had  lectured 
Faith  so  strongly  in  the  Good-Conduct  Club  sessions 
for  her  lack  of  thought.  "We're  sorry,  father, — truly, 
we  are.  Pitch  into  us  hard — we  deserve  a  regular 
combing  down." 

But  Mr.  Meredith  did  no  combing  down  or  pitching 
into.  He  sat  down  and  gathered  his  small  culprits 
close  to  him  and  talked  a  little  to  them,  tenderly  and 


286  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

wisely.  They  were  overcome  with  remorse  and  shame, 
and  felt  that  they  could  never  be  so  silly  and  thought- 
less again. 

"We've  just  got  to  punish  ourselves  good  and  hard 
for  this,"  whispered  Jerry  as  they  crept  upstairs. 
"We'll  have  a  session  of  the  Club  first  thing  to-morrow 
and  decide  how  we'll  do  it.  I  never  saw  father  so  cut 
up.  But  I  wish  to  goodness  the  Methodists  would  stick 
to  one  night  for  their  prayer  meeting  and  not  wander 
all  over  the  week." 

"Any  how,  I'm  glad  it  wasn't  what  I  was  afraid  it 
was,"  murmured  Una  to  herself. 

Behind  them,  in  the  study,  Mr.  Meredith  had  sat 
down  at  his  desk  and  buried  his  face  in  his  arms. 

"God  help  me!"  he  said.  "I'm  a  poor  sort  of  a 
father.  Oh,  Rosemary!  If  you  had  only  cared!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
A  FAST  DAY 

THE  Good-Conduct  Club  had  a  special  session 
the  next  morning  before  school.  After  various 
suggestions,  it  was  decided  that  a  fast  day  would  be 
an  appropriate  punishment. 

"We  won't  eat  a  single  thing  for  a  whole  day,"  said 
Jerry.  "I'm  kind  of  curious  to  see  what  fasting  is 
like,  anyhow.  This  will  be  a  good  chance  to  find  out." 

"What  day  will  we  choose  for  it  ?"  asked  Una,  who 
thought  it  would  be  quite  an  easy  punishment  and 
rather  wondered  that  Jerry  and  Faith  had  not  devised 
something  harder. 

"Let's  pick  Monday,"  said  Faith.  "We  mostly  have 
a  pretty  filling  dinner  on  Sundays,  and  Mondays'  meals 
never  amount  to  much  anyhow." 

"But  that's  just  the  point,"  exclaimed  Jerry.  "We 
mustn't  take  the  easiest  day  to  fast,  but  the  hardest — 
and  that's  Sunday,  because,  as  you  say,  we  mostly  have 
roast  beef  that  day  instead  of  cold  ditto.  It  wouldn't 
be  much  punishment  to  fast  from  ditto.  Let's  take 
next  Sunday.  It  will  be  a  good  day,  for  father  is 
going  to  exchange  for  the  morning  service  with  the 
Upper  Lowbridge  minister.  Father  will  be  away  till 

287 


288  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

evening.  If  Aunt  Martha  wonders  what's  got  into 
us,  we'll  tell  her  right  up  that  we're  fasting  for  the 
good  of  our  souls,  and  it  is  in  the  Bible  and  she  is  not 
to  interfere,  and  I  guess  she  won't." 

Aunt  Martha  did  not.  She  merely  said  in  her  fret- 
ful, mumbling  way,  "What  foolishness  are  you  young 
rips  up  to  now  ?"  and  thought  no  more  about  it.  Mr. 
Meredith  had  gone  away  early  in  the  morning  before 
any  one  was  up.  He  went  without  his  breakfast,  too, 
but  that  was,  of  course,  of  common  occurrence.  Half 
of  the  time  he  forgot  it  and  there  was  no  one  to  remind 
him  of  it.  Breakfast — Aunt  Martha's  breakfast — 
was  not  a  hard  meal  to  miss.  Even  the  hungry  "young 
rips"  did  not  feel  it  any  great  deprivation  to  abstain 
from  the  "lumpy  porridge  and  blue  milk"  which  had 
aroused  the  scorn  of  Mary  Vance.  But  it  was  different 
at  dinner  time.  They  were  furiously  hungry  then,  and 
the  odour  of  roast  beef  which  pervaded  the  manse, 
and  which  was  wholly  delightful  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  roast  beef  itself  was  badly  underdone,  was 
almost  more  than  they  could  stand.  In  desperation 
they  rushed  to  the  graveyard  where  they  couldn't  smell 
it.  But  Una  could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  the  dining 
room  window,  through  which  the  Upper  Lowbridge 
minister  could  be  seen,  placidly  eating. 

"If  I  could  only  have  just  a  weeny,  teeny  piece,"  she 
sighed. 

"Now,  you  stop  that,"  commanded  Jerry.     "Of 
course  it's  hard — but  that's  the  punishment  of  it.     I 


A  FAST  DAY  289 

could  eat  a  graven  image  this  very  minute,  but  am  I 
complaining?  Let's  think  of  something  else.  We've 
just  got  to  rise  above  our  stomachs." 

At  supper  time  they  did  not  feel  the  pangs  of  hunger 
which  they  had  suffered  earlier  in  the  day. 

"I  suppose  we're  getting  used  to  it,"  said  Faith. 
"I  feel  an  awfully  queer  all-gone  sort  of  feeling,  but 
I  can't  say  I'm  hungry." 

"My  head  is  funny,"  said  Una.  "It  goes  round  and 
round  sometimes." 

But  she  wrent  gamely  to  church  with  the  others.  If 
Mr.  Meredith  had  not  been  so  wholly  wrapped  up  in 
and  carried  away  with  his  subject  he  might  have 
noticed  the  pale  little  face  and  hollow  eyes  in  the  manse 
pew  beneath.  But  he  noticed  nothing  and  his  sermon 
was  something  longer  than  usual.  Then,  just  before 
he  gave  out  the  final  hymn,  Una  Meredith  tumbled  off 
the  seat  of  the  manse  pew  and  lay  in  a  dead  faint  on 
the  floor. 

Mrs.  Elder  Clow  was  the  first  to  reach  her.  She 
caught  the  thin  little  body  from  the  arms  of  white- 
faced,  terrified  Faith  and  carried  it  into  the  vestry. 
Mr.  Meredith  forgot  the  hymn  and  everything  else 
and  rushed  madly  after  her.  The  congregation  dis- 
missed itself  as  best  it  could. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Clow,"  gasped  Faith,  "is  Una  dead? 
Have  we  killed  her  ?" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  child  ?"  demanded  the 
pale  father. 


290  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"She  has  just  fainted,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Clow. 
"Oh,  here's  the  doctor,  thank  goodness." 

Gilbert  did  not  find  it  a  very  easy  thing  to  bring  Una 
back  to  consciousness.  He  worked  over  her  for  a  long 
time  before  her  eyes  opened.  Then  he  carried  her  over 
to  the  manse,  followed  by  Faith,  sobbing  hysterically 
in  her  relief. 

"She  is  just  hungry,  you  know — she  didn't  eat  a 
thing  to-day — none  of  us  did — we  were  all  fasting." 

"Fasting!"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  and  "Fasting?"  said 
the  doctor. 

"Yes — to  punish  ourselves  for  singing  Polly  Wolly 
in  the  graveyard,"  sobbed  Faith. 

"My  child,  I  don't  want  you  to  punish  yourselves  for 
that,"  said  Mr.  Meredith  in  distress.  "I  gave  you  your 
little  scolding — and  you  were  all  penitent — and  I  for- 
gave you." 

"Yes,  but  we  had  to  be  punished,"  explained  Faith. 
"It's  our  rule — in  our  Good-Conduct  Club,  you  know 
— if  we  do  anything  wrong,  or  anything  that  is  likely 
to  hurt  father  in  the  congregation,  we  have  to  punish 
ourselves.  We  are  bringing  ourselves  up,  you  know, 
because  there  is  nobody  to  do  it." 

Mr.  Meredith  groaned,  but  the  doctor  got  up  from 
Una's  side  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"Then  this  child  simply  fainted  from  lack  of  food 
and  all  she  needs  is  a  good  square  meal,"  he  said. 
""Mrs.  Clow,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  see  she  gets  it? 
And  I  think  from  Faith's  story  that  they  all  would  be 


A  FAST  DAY  291 

the  better  of  something  to  eat,  or  we  shall  have  more 
faintings," 

"I  suppose  we  shouldn't  have  made  Una  fast,"  said 
Faith  remorsefully.  "When  I  think  of  it,  only  Jerry 
and  I  should  have  been  punished.  We  got  up  the  con- 
cert and  we  were  the  oldest." 

"I  sang  Polly  Wolly  just  the  same  as  the  rest  of 
you,"  said  Una's  weak  little  voice,  "so  I  had  to  be 
punished,  too." 

Mrs.  Clow  came  with  a  glass  of  milk,  Faith  and 
Jerry  and  Carl  sneaked  off  to  the  pantry,  and  John 
Meredith  went  into  his  study,  where  he  sat  in  the 
darkness  for  a  long  time,  along  with  his  bitter 
thoughts.  So  his  children  were  bringing  themselves 
up  because  there  was  "nobody  to  do  it" — struggling 
along  amid  their  little  perplexities  without  a  hand  to 
guide  or  a  voice  to  counsel.  Faith's  innocently  uttered 
phrase  rankled  in  her  father's  mind  like  a  barbed  shaft. 
There  was  "nobody"  to  look  after  them — to  comfort 
their  little  souls  and  care  for  their  little  bodies.  How 
frail  Una  had  looked,  lying  there  on  the  vestry  sofa 
in  that  long  faint!  How  thin  were  her  tiny  hands, 
how  pallid  her  little  face!  She  looked  as  if  she  might 
slip  away  from  him  in  a  breath — sweet  little  Una,  of 
whom  Cecilia  had  begged  him  to  take  such  special  care. 
Since  his  wife's  death  he  had  not  felt  such  an  agony 
of  dread  as  when  he  had  hung  over  his  little  girl  in 
her  unconsciousness.  He  must  do  something — but 
what?  Should  he  ask  Elizabeth  Kirk  to  marry  him? 


292  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

She  was  a  good  woman — she  would  be  kind  to  his 
children.  He  might  bring  himself  to  do  it  if  it  were 
not  for  his  love  of  Rosemary  West.  But  until  he  had 
crushed  that  out  he  could  not  seek  another  woman  in 
marriage.  And  he  could  not  crush  it  out — he  had  tried 
and  he  could  not.  Rosemary  had  been  in  church  that 
evening,  for  the  first  time  since  her  return  from  Kings- 
port.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face  in  the  back 
of  the  crowded  church,  just  as  he  had  finished  his 
sermon.  His  heart  had  given  a  fierce  throb.  He  sat 
while  the  choir  sang  the  "collection  piece,"  with  his 
bent  head  and  tingling  pulses.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  the  evening  upon  which  he  had  asked  her  to 
marry  him.  When  he  had  risen  to  give  out  the  hymn 
his  hands  were  trembling  and  his  pale  face  was  flushed. 
Then  Una's  fainting  spell  had  banished  everything 
from  his  mind  for  a  time.  Now,  in  the  darkness  and 
solitude  of  the  study  it  rushed  back.  Rosemary  was 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  him.  It  was  of  no 
use  for  him  to  think  of  marrying  any  other.  He  could 
not  commit  such  a  sacrilege  even  for  his  children's 
sake.  He  must  take  up  his  burden  alone — he  must  try 
to  be  a  better,  a  more  watchful  father — he  must  tell 
his  children  not  to  be  afraid  to  come  to  him  with  all 
their  little  problems.  Then  he  lighted  his  lamp  and 
took  up  a  bulky  new  book  which  was  setting  the  theo- 
logical world  by  the  ears.  He  would  read  just  one 
chapter  to  compose  his  mind.  Five  minutes  later  he 
was  lost  to  the  world  and  the  troubles  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
A  WEIRD  TALE 

ON  an  early  June  evening  Rainbow  Valley  was  a 
entirely  delightful  place  and  the  children  felt  it 
to  be  so,  as  they  sat  in  the  open  glade  where  the  bells 
rang  elfishly  on  the  Tree  Lovers,  and  the  White  Lady 
shook  her  green  tresses.  The  wind  was  laughing  and 
whistling  about  them  like  a  leal,  glad-hearted  comrade. 
The  young  ferns  were  spicy  in  the  hollow.  The  wild 
cherry  trees  scattered  over  the  valley,  among  the  dark 
firs,  were  mistily  white.  The  robins  were  whistling 
over  in  the  maples  behind  Ingleside.  Beyond,  on  the 
slopes  of  the  Glen,  were  blossoming  orchards,  sweet 
and  mystic  and  wonderful,  veiled  in  dusk.  It  was 
spring,  and  young  things  must  be  glad  in  spring. 
Everybody  was  glad  in  Rainbow  Valley  that  evening — 
until  Mary  Vance  froze  their  blood  with  the  story  of 
Henry  Warren's  ghost. 

Jem  was  not  there.  Jem  spent  his  evenings  now 
studying  for  his  entrance  examination  in  the  Ingleside 
garret.  Jerry  was  down  near  the  pond,  trouting. 
Walter  had  been  reading  Longfellow's  sea  poems  to 
the  others  and  they  were  steeped  in  the  beauty  and 
mystery  of  the  ships.  Then  they  talked  of  what  they 

293 


294  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

would  do  when  they  were  grown  up — where  they 
would  travel — the  far,  fair  shores  they  would  see. 
Nan  and  Di  meant  to  go  to  Europe.  Walter  longed 
for  the  Nile  moaning  past  its  Egyptian  sands,  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  sphinx.  Faith  opined  rather  dismally 
that  she  supposed  she  would  have  to  be  a  missionary — 
old  Mrs.  Taylor  had  told  her  she  ought  to  be — and 
then  she  would  at  least  see  India  or  China,  those  mys- 
terious lands  of  the  Orient.  Carl's  heart  was  set  on 
African  jungles.  Una  said  nothing.  She  thought  she 
would  just  like  to  stay  at  home.  It  was  prettier  here 
than  anywhere  else.  It  would  be  dreadful  when  they 
were  all  grown  up  and  had  to  scatter  over  the  world. 
The  very  idea  made  Una  feel  lonesome  and  homesick. 
But  the  others  dreamed  on  delightedly  until  Mary 
Vance  arrived  and  banished  poesy  and  dreams  at  one 
fell  swoop. 

"Laws,  but  I'm  out  of  puff,"  she  exclaimed.  "I've 
run  down  that  hill  like  sixty.  I  got  an  awful  scare  up 
there  at  the  old  Bailey  place." 

"What  frightened  you?"  asked  Di. 

"I  dunno.  I  was  poking  about  under  them  lilacs  in 
the  old  garden,  trying  to  see  if  there  was  any  lilies- 
of-the-valley  out  yet.  It  was  dark  as  a  pocket  there — 
and  all  at  once  I  seen  something  stirring  and  rustling 
round  at  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  in  those  cherry 
bushes.  It  was  white.  I  tell  you  I  didn't  stop  for 
a  second  look.  I  flew  over  the  dyke  quicker  than  quick. 
I  was  sure  it  was  Henry  Warren's  ghost." 


A  WEIRD  TALE  295 

"Who  was  Henry  Warren?"  asked  Di. 

"And  why  should  he  have  a  ghost  ?"  asked  Nan. 

"Laws,  did  you  never  hear  the  story?  And  you 
brought  up  in  the  Glen.  Well,  wait  a  minute  till  I 
get  my  breath  all  back  and  I'll  tell  you." 

Walter  shivered  delightsomely.  He  loved  ghost 
stories.  Their  mystery,  their  dramatic  climaxes,  their 
eeriness  gave  him  a  fearful,  exquisite  pleasure.  Long- 
fellow instantly  grew  tame  and  commonplace.  He 
threw  the  book  aside  and  stretched  himself  out, 
propped  upon  his  elbows  to  listen  whole-heartedly, 
fixing  his  great  luminous  eyes  on  Mary's  face.  Mary 
wished  he  wouldn't  look  at  her  so.  She  felt  she  could 
make  a  far  better  job  of  the  ghost  story  if  Walter  were 
not  looking  at  her.  She  could  put  on  several  frills 
and  invent  a  few  artistic  details  to  enhance  the  horror. 
As  it  was,  she  had  to  stick  to  the  bare  truth — or  what 
had  been  told  her  for  truth. 

"Well,"  she  began,  "you  know  old  Tom  Bailey  and 
his  wife  used  to  live  in  that  house  up  there  thirty  years 
ago.  He  was  an  awful  old  rip,  they  say,  and  his  wife 
wasn't  much  better.  They'd  no  children  of  their  own, 
but  a  sister  of  old  Tom's  died  and  left  a  little  boy — 
this  Henry  Warren — and  they  took  him.  He  was 
about  twelve  when  he  came  to  them,  and  kind  of  under- 
sized and  delicate.  They  say  Tom  and  his  wife  used 
him  awful  from  the  start — whipped  him  and  starved 
him.  Folks  said  they  wanted  him  to  die  so's  they  could 
get  the  little  bit  of  money  his  mother  had  left  for  him. 


296  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Henry  didn't  die  right  off,  but  he  begun  having  fits — 
epileps,  they  called  'em — and  he  grew  up  kind  of 
simple,  till  he  was  about  eighteen.  His  uncle  used  to 
thrash  him  in  that  garden  up  there,  'cause  it  was  back 
of  the  house  where  no  one  could  see  him.  But  folks 
could  hear  and  they  say  it  was  awful  sometimes  hear- 
ing poor  Henry  plead  with  his  uncle  not  to  kill  him. 
But  nobody  dared  interfere  'cause  old  Tom  was  such 
a  reprobate  he'd  have  been  sure  to  get  square  with  'em 
some  way.  He  burned  the  barns  of  a  man  at  Harbour 
Head  who  offended  him.  At  last  Henry  died  and  his 
uncle  and  aunt  give  out  he  died  in  one  of  his  fits  and 
that  was  all  anybody  ever  knowed,  but  everybody  said 
Tom  had  just  up  and  killed  him  for  keeps  at  last.  And 
it  wasn't  long  till  it  got  round  that  Henry  walked. 
That  old  garden  was  ha'nted.  He  was  heard  there  at 
nights,  moaning  and  crying.  Old  Tom  and  his  wife 
got  out — went  out  West  and  never  come  back. 
The  place  got  such  a  bad  name  nobody'd  buy  or  rent 
it  That's  why  it's  all  gone  to  ruin.  That  was  thirty 
years  ago,  but  Henry  Warren's  ghost  ha'nts  it  yet." 

"Do  you  believe  that?"  asked  Nan  scornfully.  "/ 
don't." 

"Well,  good  people  have  seen  him — and  heard  him," 
retorted  Mary.  "They  say  he  appears  and  grovels 
on  the  ground  and  holds  you  by  the  legs  and  gibbers 
and  moans  like  he  did  when  he  was  alive.  I  thought 
of  that  as  soon  as  I  seen  that  white  thing  in  the  bushes 
and  thought  if  it  caught  me  like  that  and  moaned  I'd 


A  WEIRD  TALE  297 

drop  down  dead  on  the  spot.  So  I  cut  and  run.  It 
mightn't  have  been  his  ghost,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  take 
any  chances  with  a  ha'nt." 

"It  was  likely  old  Mrs.  Stimson's  white  calf," 
laughed  Di.  "It  pastures  in  that  garden — I've  seen  it." 

"Maybe  so.  But  I'm  not  going  home  through  the 
Bailey  garden  any  more.  Here's  Jerry  with  a  big 
string  of  trout  and  it's  my  turn  to  cook  them.  Jem 
and  Jerry  both  say  I'm  the  best  cook  in  the  Glen.  And 
Cornelia  told  me  I  could  bring  up  this  batch  of  cookies. 
I  all  but  dropped  them  when  I  saw  Henry's  ghost." 

Jerry  hooted  when  he  heard  the  ghost  story — which 
Mary  repeated  as  she  fried  the  fish,  touching  it  up  a 
trifle  or  so,  since  Walter  had  gone  to  help  Faith  set 
the  table.  It  made  no  impression  on  Jerry,  but  Faith 
and  Una  and  Carl  had  been  secretly  much  frightened, 
though  they  would  never  have  given  in  to  it.  It  was 
all  right  as  long  as  the  others  were  with  them  in  the 
valley;  but  when  the  feast  was  over  and  the  shadows 
fell  they  quaked  with  remembrance.  Jerry  went  up  to 
Ingleside  with  the  Blythes  to  see  Jem  about  something, 
and  Mary  Vance  went  around  that  way  home.  So 
Faith  and  Una  and  Carl  had  to  go  back  to  the  manse 
alone.  They  walked  very  close  together  and  gave  the 
old  Bailey  garden  a  wide  berth.  They  did  not  believe 
that  it  was  haunted,  of  course,  but  they  would  not  go 
near  it  for  all  that. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  GHOST  ON  THE  DYKE 

SOMEHOW,  Faith  and  Carl  and  Una  could  not 
shake  off  the  hold  which  the  story  of  Henry  War- 
ren's ghost  had  taken  upon  their  imaginations.  They 
had  never  believed  in  ghosts.  Ghost  tales  they  had 
heard  a-plenty — Mary  Vance  had  told  some  far  more 
blood-curdling  than  this;  but  those  tales  were  all  of 
places  and  people  and  spooks  far  away  and  unknown. 
After  the  first  half-awful,  half-pleasant  thrill  of  awe 
and  terror  they  thought  of  them  no  more.  But  this 
story  came  home  to  them.  The  old  Bailey  garden  was 
almost  at  their  very  door — almost  in  their  beloved 
Rainbow  Valley.  They  had  passed  and  repassed  it 
constantly ;  they  had  hunted  for  flowers  in  it ;  they  had 
made  short  cuts  through  it  when  they  wished  to  go 
straight  from  the  village  to  the  valley.  But  never 
again!  After  the  night  when  Mary  Vance  told  them 
its  gruesome  tale  they  would  not  have  gone  through 
or  near  it  on  pain  of  death.  Death !  What  was  death 
compared  to  the  unearthly  possibility  of  falling  into 
the  clutches  of  Henry  Warren's  grovelling  ghost? 

One  warm  July  evening  the  three  of  them  were 
sitting  under  the  Tree  Lovers,  feeling  a  little  lonely. 

298 


THE  GHOST  ON  THE  DYKE       299 

Nobody  else  had  come  near  the  valley  that  evening. 
Jem  Blythe  was  away  in  Charlottetown,  writing  on 
his  entrance  examinations.  Jerry  and  Walter  Blythe 
were  off  for  a  sail  on  the  harbour  with  old  Captain 
Crawford.  Nan  and  Di  and  Rilla  and  Shirley  had 
gone  down  the  harbour  road  to  visit  Kenneth  and 
Persis  Ford,  who  had  come  with  their  parents  for  a 
flying  visit  to  the  little  old  House  of  Dreams.  Nan 
had  asked  Faith  to  go  with  them,  but  Faith  had  de- 
clined. She  would  never  have  admitted  it,  but  she 
felt  a  little  secret  jealousy  of  Persis  Ford,  concerning 
whose  wonderful  beauty  and  city  glamour  she  had 
heard  a  great  deal.  No,  she  wasn't  going  to  go  down 
there  and  play  second  fiddle  to  anybody.  She  and 
Una  took  their  story  books  to  Rainbow  Valley  and 
read,  while  Carl  investigated  bugs  along  the  banks  of 
the  brook,  and  all  three  were  happy  until  they  suddenly 
realized  that  it  was  twilight  and  that  the  old  Bailey 
garden  was  uncomfortably  near  by.  Carl  came  and 
sat  down  close  to  the  girls.  They  all  wished  they  had 
gone  home  a  little  sooner,  but  nobody  said  anything. 

Great,  velvety,  purple  clouds  heaped  up  in  the  west 
and  spread  over  the  valley.  There  was  no  wind  and 
everything  was  suddenly,  strangely,  dreadfully  still. 
The  marsh  was  full  of  thousands  of  fireflies.  Surely 
some  fairy  parliament  was  being  convened  that  night. 
Altogether,  Rainbow  Valley  was  not  a  canny  place 
just  then. 

Faith  looked  fearfully  up  the  valley  to  the  old  Bailey 


300  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

garden.  Then,  if  anybody's  blood  ever  did  freeze, 
Faith  Meredith's  certainly  froze  at  that  moment  The 
eyes  of  Carl  and  Una  followed  her  entranced  gaze  and 
chills  began  gallopading  up  and  down  their  spines  also. 
For  there,  under  the  big  tamarack  tree  on  the  tumble- 
down, grass-grown  dyke  of  the  Bailey  garden,  was  a 
something  white — shapelessly  white  in  the  gathering 
gloom.  The  three  Merediths  sat  and  gazed  as  if 
turned  to  stone. 

"It's — it's  the — calf,"  whispered  Una  at  last. 

"It's — too — big — for  the  calf,"  whispered  Faith. 
Her  mouth  and  lips  were  so  dry  she  could  hardly 
articulate  the  words. 

Suddenly  Carl  gasped, 

"It's  coming  here." 

The  girls  gave  one  last  agonized  glance.  Yes,  it  was 
creeping  down  over  the  dyke,  as  no  calf  ever  did  or 
could  creep.  Reason  fled  before  sudden,  over-master- 
ing panic.  For  the  moment  every  one  of  the  trio  was 
firmly  convinced  that  what  they  saw  was  Henry  War- 
ren's ghost.  Carl  sprang  to  his  feet  and  bolted  blindly. 
With  a  simultaneous  shriek  the  girls  followed  him. 
Like  mad  creatures  they  tore  up  the  hill,  across  the 
road  and  into  the  manse.  They  had  left  Aunt  Martha 
sewing  in  the  kitchen.  She  was  not  there.  They 
rushed  to  the  study.  It  was  dark  and  tenantless.  As 
with  one  impulse,  they  swung  around  and  made  for 
Ingleside — but  not  across  Rainbow  Valley.  Down  the 
hill  and  through  the  Glen  street  they  flew  on  the  wings 


THE  GHOST  ON  THE  DYKE       301 

of  their  wild  terror,  Carl  in  the  lead,  Una  bringing  up 
the  rear.  Nobody  tried  to  stop  them,  though  everybody 
who  saw  them  wondered  what  fresh  devilment  those 
manse  youngsters  were  up  to  now.  But  at  the  gate  of 
Ingleside  they  ran  into  Rosemary  West,  who  had  just 
been  in  for  a  moment  to  return  some  borrowed  books. 

She  saw  their  ghastly  faces  and  staring  eyes.  She 
realized  that  their  poor  little  souls  were  wrung  with 
some  awful  and  real  fear,  whatever  its  cause.  She 
caught  Carl  with  one  arm  and  Faith  with  the  other. 
Una  stumbled  against  her  and  held  on  desperately. 

"Children,  dear,  what  has  happened?"  she  said. 
"What  has  frightened  you?" 

"Henry  Warren's  ghost,"  answered  Carl,  through 
his  chattering  teeth. 

"Henry — Warren's — ghost!"  said  amazed  Rose- 
mary, who  had  never  heard  the  story. 

"Yes,"  sobbed  Faith  hysterically.  "It's  there — on 
the  Bailey  dyke — we  saw  it — and  it  started  to — chase 
us." 

Rosemary  herded  the  three  distracted  creatures  to 
the  Ingleside  veranda.  Gilbert  and  Anne  were  both 
away,  having  also  gone  to  the  House  of  Dreams,  but 
Susan  appeared  in  the  doorway,  gaunt  and  practical 
and  unghostlike. 

"What  is  all  this  rumpus  about?"  she  inquired. 

Again  the  children  gasped  out  their  awful  tale,  while 
Rosemary  held  them  close  to  her  and  soothed  them 
with  wordless  comfort. 


302  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"Likely  it  was  an  owl,"  said  Susan,  unstirred. 

An  owl!  The  Meredith  children  never  had  any 
opinion  of  Susan's  intelligence  after  that ! 

"It  was  bigger  than  a  million  owls,"  said  Carl,  sob- 
bing— oh,  how  ashamed  Carl  was  of  that  sobbing  in 
after  days — "and  it — it  grovelled  just  as  Mary  said — 
and  it  was  crawling  down  over  the  dyke  to  get  at  us. 
Do  owls  crawl?" 

Rosemary  looked  at  Susan. 

"They  must  have  seen  something  to  frighten  them 
so,"  she  said. 

"I  will  go  and  see,"  said  Susan  coolly.  "Now,  chil- 
dren, calm  yourselves.  Whatever  you  have  seen,  it 
was  not  a  ghost.  As  for  poor  Henry  Warren,  I  feel 
sure  he  would  be  only  too  glad  to  rest  quietly  in  his 
peaceful  grave  once  he  got  there.  No  fear  of  him 
venturing  back,  and  that  you  may  tie  to.  If  you  can 
make  them  see  reason,  Miss  West,  I  will  find  out  the 
truth  of  the  matter." 

Susan  departed  for  Rainbow  Valley,  valiantly  grasp- 
ing a  pitchfork  which  she  found  leaning  against  the 
back  fence  where  the  doctor  had  been  working  in  his 
little  hay-field.  A  pitchfork  might  not  be  of  much 
use  against  "ha'nts,"  but  it  was  a  comforting  sort  of 
weapon.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  Rainbow 
Valley  when  Susan  reached  it.  No  white  visitants 
appeared  to  be  lurking  in  the  shadowy,  tangled  old 
Bailey  garden.  Susan  marched  boldly  through  it  and 
beyond  it,  and  rapped  with  her  pitchfork  on  the  door 


THE  GHOST  ON  THE  DYKE       303 

of  the  little  cottage  on  the  other  side,  where  Mrs. 
Stimson  lived  with  her  two  daughters. 

Back  at  Ingleside  Rosemary  had  succeeded  in  calm- 
ing the  children.  They  still  sobbed  a  little  from  shock, 
but  they  were  beginning  to  feel  a  lurking  and  salutary 
suspicion  that  they  had  made  dreadful  geese  of  them- 
selves. This  suspicion  became  a  certainty  when  Susan 
finally  returned. 

"I  have  found  out  what  your  ghost  was,"  she  said, 
with  a  grim  smile,  sitting  down  on  a  rocker  and  fan- 
ning herself.  "Old  Mrs.  Stimson  has  had  a  pair  of 
factory  cotton  sheets  bleaching  in  the  Bailey  garden 
for  a  week.  She  spread  them  on  the  dyke  under  the 
tamarack  tree  because  the  grass  was  clean  and  short 
there.  This  evening  she  went  out  to  take  them  in. 
She  had  her  knitting  in  her  hands  so  she  flung  the 
sheets  over  her  shoulders  by  way  of  carrying  them. 
And  then  she  must  drop -one  of  her  needles  and  find 
it  she  could  not  and  has  not  yet.  But  she  went  down 
on  her  knees  and  crept  about  to  hunt  for  it,  and  she 
was  at  that  when  she  heard  awful  yells  down  in  the 
valley  and  saw  the  three  children  tearing  up  the  hill 
past  her.  She  thought  they  had  been  bit  by  something 
and  it  gave  her  poor  old  heart  such  a  turn  that  she 
could  not  move  or  speak,  but  just  crouched  there  till 
they  disappeared.  Then  she  staggered  back  home  and 
they  have  been  applying  stimulants  to  her  ever  since, 
and  her  heart  is  in  a  terrible  condition  and  she  says  she 
will  not  get  over  this  fright  all  summer." 


304  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

The  Merediths  sat,  crimson  with  a  shame  that  even 
Rosemary's  understanding  sympathy  could  not  re- 
move. They  sneaked  off  home,  met  Jerry  at  the  manse 
gate  and  made  remorseful  confession.  A  session  of 
the  Good-Conduct  Club  was  arranged  for  next  morn- 
ing. 

"Wasn't  Miss  West  sweet  to  us  to-night?"  whis- 
pered Faith  in  bed. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Una.  "It  is  such  a  pity  it  changes 
people  so  much  to  be  made  stepmothers." 

"I  don't  believe  it  does,"  said  Faith  loyally. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
CARL  DOES  PENANCE 

"¥  DON'T  see  why  we  should  be  punished  at  all," 
J.  said  Faith,  rather  sulkily.  "We  didn't  do  any- 
thing wrong.  We  couldn't  help  being  frightened. 
And  it  won't  do  father  any  harm.  It  was  just  an  acci- 
dent." 

"You  were  cowards,"  said  Jerry  with  judicial  scorn, 
"and  you  gave  way  to  your  cowardice.  That  is  why 
you  should  be  punished.  Everybody  will  laugh  at  you 
about  this,  and  that  is  a  disgrace  to  the  family." 

"If  you  knew  how  awful  the  whole  thing  was,"  said 
Faith  with  a  shiver,  "you  would  think  we  had  been 
punished  enough  already.  I  wouldn't  go  through  it 
again  for  anything  in  the  whole  world." 

"I  believe  you'd  have  run  yourself  if  you'd  been 
there,"  muttered  Carl. 

"From  an  old  woman  in  a  cotton  sheet,"  mocked 
Jerry.  "Ho,  ho,  ho!" 

"It  didn't  look  a  bit  like  an  old  woman,"  cried  Faith. 
"It  was  just  a  great,  big,  white  thing  crawling  about 
in  the  grass  just  as  Mary  Vance  said  Henry  Warren 
did.  It's  all  very  fine  for  you  to  laugh,  Jerry  Mere- 
dith, but  you'd  have  laughed  on  the  other  side  of  your 

305 


306  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

mouth  if  you'd  been  there.  And  how  are  we  to  be 
punished?  /  don't  think  it's  fair,  but  let's  know  what 
we  have  to  do,  Judge  Meredith !" 

"The  way  I  look  at  it,"  said  Jerry,  frowning,  "is 
that  Carl  was  the  most  to  blame.  He  bolted  first,  as 
I  understand  it.  Besides,  he  was  a  boy,  so  he  should 
have  stood  his  ground  to  protect  you  girls,  whatever 
the  danger  was.  You  know  that  Carl,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  growled  Carl  shamefacedly. 

"Very  well.  This  is  to  be  your  punishment.  To- 
night you'll  sit  on  Mr.  Hezekiah  Pollock's  tombstone 
in  the  graveyard  alone,  until  twelve  o'clock." 

Carl  gave  a  little  shudder.  The  graveyard  was  not 
so  very  far  from  the  old  Bailey  garden.  It  would  be 
a  trying  ordeal.  But  Carl  was  anxious  to  wipe  out 
his  disgrace  and  prove  that  he  was  not  a  coward  after 
all. 

"All  right,"  he  said  sturdily.  "But  how'll  I  know 
when  it  is  twelve?" 

"The  study  windows  are  open  and  you'll  hear  the 
clock  striking.  And  mind  that  you  are  not  to  budge 
out  of  that  graveyard  until  the  last  stroke.  As  for  you 
girls,  you've  got  to  go  without  jam  at  supper  for  a 
week." 

Faith  and  Una  looked  rather  blank.  They  were 
inclined  to  think  that  even  Carl's  comparatively  short 
though  sharp  agony  was  lighter  punishment  than  this 
long  drawn-out  ordeal.  A  whole  week  of  soggy  bread 
without  the  saving  grace  of  jam!  But  no  shirking 


CARL  DOES  PENANCE  307 

was  permitted  in  the  club.  The  girls  accepted  their 
lot  with  such  philosophy  as  they  could  summon  up. 

That  night  they  all  went  to  bed  at  nine,  except  Carl, 
who  was  already  keeping  vigil  on  the  tombstone.  Una 
slipped  in  to  bid  him  good  night.  Her  tender  heart 
was  wrung  with  sympathy. 

"Oh,  Carl,  are  you  much  scared  ?"  she  whispered. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Carl  airily. 

"I  won't  sleep  a  wink  till  after  twelve,"  said  Una. 
"If  you  get  lonesome  just  look  up  at  our  window  and 
remember  that  I'm  inside,  awake,  and  thinking  about 
you.  That  will  be  a  little  company,  won't  it?" 

"I'll  be  all  right.  Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  said 
Carl. 

But  in  spite  of  his  dauntless  words  Carl  was  a  pretty 
lonely  boy  when  the  lights  went  out  in  the  manse.  He 
had  hoped  his  father  would  be  in  the  study  as  he  so 
often  was.  He  would  not  feel  alone  then.  But  that 
night  Mr.  Meredith  had  been  summoned  to  the  fishing 
village  at  the  harbour  mouth  to  see  a  dying  man.  He 
would  not  likely  be  back  until  after  midnight.  Carl 
must  dree  his  weird  alone. 

A  Glen  man  went  past  carrying  a  lantern.  The  mys- 
terious shadows  caused  by  the  lantern-light  went  hurt- 
ling madly  over  the  graveyard  like  a  dance  of  demons 
or  witches.  Then  they  passed  and  darkness  fell  again. 
One  by  one  the  lights  in  the  Glen  went  out.  It  was  a 
very  dark  night,  with  a  cloudy  sky,  and  a  raw  east 
wind  that  was  cold  in  spite  of  the  calendar.  Far  away 


308  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

on  the  horizon  was  the  low  dim  lustre  of  the  Charlotte- 
town  lights.  The  wind  wailed  and  sighed  in  the  old 
fir  trees.  Mr.  Alec  Davis'  tall  monument  gleamed 
whitely  through  the  gloom.  The  willow  beside  it 
tossed  long,  writhing  arms  spectrally.  At  times,  the 
gyrations  of  its  boughs  made  it  seem  as  if  the  monu- 
ment were  moving,  too. 

Garl  curled  himself  up  on  the  tombstone  with  his 
legs  tucked  under  him.  It  wasn't  precisely  pleasant  to 
hang  them  over  the  edge  of  the  stone.  Just  suppose — 
just  suppose — bony  hands  should  reach  up  out  of  Mr. 
Pollock's  grave  under  it  and  clutch  him  by  the  ankles. 
That  had  been  one  of  Mary  Vance's  cheerful  specula- 
tions one  time  when  they  had  all  been  sitting  there.  It 
returned  to  haunt  Carl  now.  He  didn't  believe  those 
things ;  he  didn't  even  really  believe  in  Henry  Warren's 
ghost.  As  for  Mr.  Pollock,  he  had  been  dead  for  sixty 
years,  so  it  wasn't  likely  he  cared  who  sat  on  his  tomb- 
stone now.  But  there  is  something  very  strange  and 
terrible  in  being  awake  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  asleep.  You  are  alone  then  with  nothing  but  your 
own  feeble  personality  to  pit  against  the  mighty  princi- 
palities and  powers  of  darkness.  Carl  was  only  ten 
and  the  dead  were  all  around  him — and  he  wished, 
oh,  he  wished  that  the  clock  would  strike  twelve. 
Would  it  never  strike  twelve?  Surely  Aunt  Martha 
must  have  forgotten  to  wind  it. 

And  then  it  struck  eleven — only  eleven!  He  must 
stay  yet  another  hour  in  that  grim  place.  If  only 


CARL  DOES  PENANCE  309 

there  were  a  few  friendly  stars  to  be  seen !  The  dark- 
ness was  so  thick  it  seemed  to  press  against  his  face. 
There  was  a  sound  as  of  stealthy  passing  footsteps  all 
over  the  graveyard.  Carl  shivered,  partly  with  prick- 
ling terror,  partly  with  real  cold. 

Then  it  began  to  rain — a  chill,  penetrating  drizzle. 
Carl's  thin  little  cotton  blouse  and  shirt  were  soon  wet 
through.  He  felt  chilled  to  the  bone.  He  forgot 
mental  terrors  in  his  physical  discomfort.  But  he  must 
stay  there  till  twelve — he  was  punishing  himself  and 
he  was  on  his  honour.  Nothing  had  been  said  about 
rain — but  it  did  not  make  any  difference.  When  the 
study  clock  finally  struck  twelve  a  drenched  little  figure 
crept  stiffly  down  off  Mr.  Pollock's  tombstone,  made 
its  way  into  the  manse  and  upstairs  to  bed.  Carl's 
teeth  were  chattering.  He  thought  he  could  never  get 
warm  again. 

He  was  warm  enough  when  morning  came.  Jerry 
gave  one  startled  look  at  his  crimson  face  and  then 
rushed  to  call  his  father.  Mr.  Meredith  came  hur- 
riedly, his  own  face  ivory  white  from  the  pallor  of  his 
long  night  vigil  by  a  death  bed.  He  had  not  got  home 
until  daylight.  He  bent  over  his  little  lad  anxiously. 

"Carl,  are  you  sick?"  he  said. 

"That — tombstone — over  there,"  said  Carl,  "it's — 
moving — about — it's  coming — at — me — keep  it — away 
— please." 

Mr.  Meredith  rushed  to  the  telephone.  In  ten 
minutes  Dr.  Blythe  was  at  the  manse.  Half  an  hour 


310  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

later  a  wire  was  sent  to  town  for  a  trained  nurse,  and 
all  the  Glen  knew  that  Carl  Meredith  was  very  ill  with 
pneumonia  and  that  Dr.  Blythe  had  been  seen  to  shake 
his  head. 

Gilbert  shook  his  head  more  than  once  in  the  fort- 
night that  followed.  Carl  developed  double  pneu- 
monia. There  was  one  night  when  Mr.  Meredith 
paced  his  study  floor,  and  Faith  and  Una  huddled  in 
their  bedroom  and  cried,  and  Jerry,  wild  with  remorse, 
refused  to  budge  from  the  floor  of  the  hall  outside 
Carl's  door.  Dr.  Blythe  and  the  nurse  never  left  the 
bedside.  They  fought  death  gallantly  until  the  red 
dawn  and  they  won  the  victory.  Carl  rallied  and 
passed  the  crisis  in  safety.  The  news  was  phoned 
about  the  waiting  Glen  and  people  found  out  how  much 
they  really  loved  their  minister  and  his  children. 

"I  haven't  had  one  decent  night's  sleep  since  I  heard 
the  child  was  sick,"  Miss  Cornelia  told  Anne,  "and 
Mary  Vance  has  cried  until  those  queer  eyes  of  hers 
looked  like  burnt  holes  in  a  blanket.  Is  it  true  that 
Carl  got  pneumonia  from  staying  out  in  the  graveyard 
that  wet  night  for  a  dare  ?" 

"No.  He  was  staying  there  to  punish  himself  for 
cowardice  in  that  affair  of  the  Warren  ghost.  It  seems 
they  have  a  club  for  bringing  themselves  up,  and  they 
punish  themselves  when  they  do  wrong.  Jerry  told 
Mr.  Meredith  all  about  it" 

"The  poor  little  souls,"  said  Miss  Cornelia. 

Carl  got  better  rapidly,  for  the  congregation  took 


CARL  DOES  PENANCE  311 

enough  nourishing  things  to  the  manse  to  furnish 
forth  a  hospital.  Norman  Douglas  drove  up  every 
evening  with  a  dozen  fresh  eggs  and  a  jar  of  Jersey 
cream.  Sometimes  he  stayed  an  hour  and  bellowed 
arguments  on  predestination  with  Mr.  Meredith  in  the 
study;  oftener  he  drove  on  up  to  the  hill  that  over- 
looked the  Glen. 

On  the  day  when  Carl  was  able  to  come  downstairs 
Mr.  Meredith  called  all  his  children  into  the  library 
and  told  them  that  they  were  to  inflict  no  more  punish- 
ments on  themselves  without  first  consulting  him. 

"But  Aunt  Martha  is  always  warning  us  that  we 
mustn't  disturb  you,"  said  Faith. 

"Never  mind  that.  You  must  remember  what  I 
say,  darlings.  Your  little  club  is  all  right  in  principle. 
But  henceforth  I  am  to  be  the  judge  who  passes  sen- 
tence." 

When  Carl  was  able  to  go  again  to  Rainbow  Valley 
they  had  a  special  feast  in  his  honour  and  the  doctor 
came  down  and  helped  them  with  the  fireworks.  Mary 
Vance  was  there,  too,  but  she  did  not  tell  any  ghost 
stories.  Miss  Cornelia  had  given  her  a  talking  to  on 
that  subject  which  Mary  would  not  forget  in  a  hurry. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
Two  STUBBORN  PEOPLE 

ROSEMARY  WEST,  on  her  way  home  from  a 
music  lesson  at  Ingleside,  turned  aside  to  the 
hidden  spring  in  Rainbow  Valley.  She  had  not  been 
there  all  summer;  the  beautiful  little  spot  had  no  longer 
any  allurement  for  her.  The  spirit  of  her  young  lover 
never  came  to  the  tryst  now ;  and  the  memories  con- 
nected with  John  Meredith  were  too  painful  and  poig- 
nant But  she  had  happened  to  glance  backward  up 
the  valley  and  had  seen  Norman  Douglas  vaulting  as 
airily  as  a  stripling  over  the  old  stone  dyke  of  the 
Bailey  garden  and  thought  he  was  on  his  way  up  the 
hill.  If  he  overtook  her  she  would  have  to  walk  home 
with  him  and  she  was  not  going  to  do  that.  So  she 
slipped  at  once  behind  the  maples  of  the  spring,  hoping 
he  had  not  seen  her  and  would  pass  on. 

But  Norman  had  seen  her  and,  what  was  more,  was 
in  pursuit  of  her.  He  had  been  wanting  for  some  time 
to  have  a  talk  with  Rosemary,  but  she  had  always, 
so  it  seemed,  avoided  him.  Rosemary  had  never,  at 
any  time,  liked  Norman  Douglas  very  well.  His  blus- 
ter, his  temper,  his  noisy  hilarity,  had  always  antago- 
nized her.  Long  ago  she  had  often  wondered  how 

312 


TWO  STUBBORN  PEOPLE          313 

Ellen  could  possibly  be  attracted  to  him.  Norman 
Douglas  was  perfectly  aware  of  her  dislike  and  he 
chuckled  over  it.  It  never  worried  Norman  if  people 
did  not  like  him.  It  did  not  even  make  him  dislike 
them  in  return,  for  he  took  it  as  a  kind  of  extorted 
compliment.  He  thought  Rosemary  a  fine  girl,  and 
he  meant  to  be  an  excellent,  generous  brother-in-law 
to  her.  But  before  he  could  be  her  brother-in-law  he 
had  to  have  a  talk  with  her,  so,  having  seen  her  leaving 
Ingleside  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  Glen  store, 
he  had  straightway  plunged  into  the  valley  to  overtake 
her. 

Rosemary  was  sitting  pensively  on  the  maple  seat 
where  John  Meredith  had  been  sitting  on  that  evening 
nearly  a  year  ago.  The  tiny  spring  shimmered  and 
dimpled  under  its  fringe  of  ferns.  Ruby-red  gleams 
of  sunset  fell  through  the  arching  boughs.  A  tall 
clump  of  perfect  asters  grew  at  her  side.  The  little 
spot  was  as  dreamy  and  witching  and  evasive  as  any 
retreat  of  fairies  or  dryads  in  ancient  forests.  Into 
it  Norman  Douglas  bounced,  scattering  and  annihilat- 
ing its  charm  in  a  moment.  His  personality  seemed  to 
swallow  the  place  up.  There  was  simply  nothing  there 
but  Norman  Douglas,  big,  red-bearded,  complacent. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Rosemary  coldly,  standing  up. 

"  'Evening,  girl.  Sit  down  again — sit  down  again. 
I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Bless  the  girl,  what's 
she  looking  at  me  like  that  for?  I  don't  want  to  eat 
you — I've  had  my  supper.  Sit  down  and  be  civil." 


3H  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"I  can  hear  what  you  have  to  say  quite  as  well  here," 
said  Rosemary. 

"So  you  can,  girl,  if  you  use  your  ears.  I  only 
wanted  you  to  be  comfortable.  You  look  so  durned 
uncomfortable,  standing  there.  Well,  I'll  sit  anyway." 

Norman  accordingly  sat  down  in  the  very  place 
John  Meredith  had  once  sat.  The  contrast  was  so 
ludicrous  that  Rosemary  was  afraid  she  would  go  off 
into  a  peal  of  hysterical  laughter  over  it.  Norman  cast 
his  hat  aside,  placed  his  huge,  red  hands  on  his  knees, 
and  looked  up  at  her  with  his  eyes  a-twinkle. 

"Come,  girl,  don't  be  so  stiff,"  he  said,  ingratiat- 
ingly. When  he  liked  he  could  be  very  ingratiating. 
"Let's  have  a  reasonable,  sensible,  friendly  chat. 
There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you.  Ellen  says  she 
won't,  so  it's  up  to  me  to  do  it." 

Rosemary  looked  down  at  the  spring,  which  seemed 
to  have  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  dewdrop.  Norman 
gazed  at  her  in  despair. 

"Durn  it  all,  you  might  help  a  fellow  out  a  bit,"  he 
burst  forth. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  help  you  say?"  asked 
Rosemary  scornfully. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  girl.  Don't  be  putting 
on  your  tragedy  airs.  No  wonder  Ellen  was  scared  to 
ask  you.  Look  here,  girl,  Ellen  and  I  want  to  marry 
each  other.  That's  plain  English,  isn't  it?  Got  that? 
And  Ellen  says  she  can't  unless  you  give  her  back  some 


TWO  STUBBORN  PEOPLE          315 

torn-fool  promise  she  made.  Come  now,  will  you  do 
it?  Will  you  do  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rosemary. 

Norman  bounced  up  and  seized  her  reluctant  hand. 

"Good !  I  knew  you  would — I  told  Ellen  you  would. 
I  knew  it  would  only  take  a  minute.  Now,  girl,  you 
go  home  and  tell  Ellen,  and  we'll  have  the  wedding 
in  a  fortnight  and  you'll  come  and  live  with  us.  We 
shan't  leave  you  to  roost  on  that  hill-top  like  a  lonely 
crow — don't  you  worry.  I  know  you  hate  me,  but, 
Lord,  it'll  be  great  fun  living  with  some  one  that  hates 
me.  Life'll  have  some  spice  in  it  after  this.  Ellen 
will  roast  me  and  you'll  freeze  me.  I  won't  have  a 
dull  moment." 

Rosemary  did  not  condescend  to  tell  him  that  noth- 
ing would  ever  induce  her  to  live  in  his  house.  She 
let  him  go  striding  back  to  the  Glen,  oozing  delight 
and  complacency,  and  she  walked  slowly  up  the  hill 
home.  She  had  known  this  was  coming  ever  since  she 
had  returned  from  Kingsport,  and  found  Norman 
Douglas  established  as  a  frequent  evening  caller.  His 
name  was  never  mentioned  between  her  and  Ellen,  but 
the  very  avoidance  of  it  was  significant.  It  was  not 
in  Rosemary's  nature  to  feel  bitter,  or  she  would  have 
felt  very  bitter.  She  was  coldly  civil  to  Norman,  and 
she  made  no  difference  in  any  way  with  Ellen.  But 
Ellen  had  not  found  much  comfort  in  her  second  court- 
ship. 


316  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

She  was  in  the  garden,  attended  by  St.  George, 
when  Rosemary  came  home.  The  two  sisters  met  in 
the  dahlia  walk.  St.  George  sat  down  on  the  gravel 
walk  between  them  and  folded  his  glossy  black  tail 
gracefully  around  his  white  paws,  with  all  the  indiffer- 
ence of  a  well-fed,  well-bred,  well-groomed  cat. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  dahlias?"  demanded  Ellen 
proudly.  "They  are  just  the  finest  we've  ever  had." 

Rosemary  had  never  cared  for  dahlias.  Their  pres- 
ence in  the  garden  was  her  concession  to  Ellen's  taste. 
She  noticed  one  huge  mottled  one  of  crimson  and 
yellow  that  lorded  it  over  all  the  others. 

"That  dahlia,"  she  said,  pointing  to  it,  "is  exactly 
like  Norman  Douglas.  It  might  easily  be  his  twin 
brother." 

Ellen's  dark-browed  face  flushed.  She  admired  the 
dahlia  in  question,  but  she  knew  Rosemary  did  not, 
and  that  no  compliment  was  intended.  But  she  dared 
not  resent  Rosemary's  speech — poor  Ellen  dared  not 
resent  anything  just  then.  And  it  was  the  first  time 
Rosemary  had  ever  mentioned  Norman's  name  to  her. 
She  felt  that  this  portended  something. 

"I  met  Norman  Douglas  in  the  valley,"  said  Rose- 
mary, looking  straight  at  her  sister,  "and  he  told  me 
you  and  he  wanted  to  be  married — if  I  would  give  you 
permission." 

"Yes?  What  did  you  say?"  asked  Ellen,  trying  to 
speak  naturally  and  off-handedly,  and  failing  com- 
pletely. She  could  not  meet  Rosemary's  eyes.  She 


TWO  STUBBORN  PEOPLE          317 

looked  down  at  St.  George's  sleek  back  and  felt  hor- 
ribly afraid.  Rosemary  had  either  said  she  would  or 
she  wouldn't.  If  she  would  Ellen  would  feel  so 
ashamed  and  remorseful  that  she  would  be  a  very  un- 
comfortable bride-elect;  and  if  she  wouldn't — well, 
Ellen  had  once  learned  to  live  without  Norman  Doug- 
las, but  she  had  forgotten  the  lesson  and  felt  that  she 
could  never  learn  it  again. 

"I  said  that  as  far  as  I  was  concerned  you  were  at 
full  liberty  to  marry  each  other  as  soon  as  you  liked," 
said  Rosemary. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ellen,  still  looking  at  St.  George. 

Rosemary's  face  softened. 

"I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  Ellen,"  she  said  gently. 

"Oh,  Rosemary,"  Ellen  looked  up  in  distress,  "I'm 
so  ashamed — I  don't  deserve  it — after  all  I  said  to 
you"— 

"We  won't  speak  about  that,"  said  Rosemary  hur- 
riedly and  decidedly. 

"But — but,"  persisted  Ellen,  "you  are  free  now, 
too — and  it's  not  too  late — John  Meredith" — 

"Ellen  West!"  Rosemary  had  a  little  spark  of 
temper  under  all  her  sweetness  and  it  flashed  forth 
now  in  her  blue  eyes.  "Have  you  quite  lost  your  senses 
in  every  respect?  Do  you  suppose  for  an  instant  that 
I  am  going  to  go  to  John  Meredith  and  say  meekly, 
'Please,  sir,  I've  changed  my  mind  and  please,  sir,  I 
hope  you  haven't  changed  yours.'  Is  that  what  you 
want  me  to  do?" 


3i8  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

"No — no — but  a  little — encouragement — he  would 
come  back" — 

"Never.  He  despises  me — and  rightly.  No  more 
of  this,  Ellen.  I  bear  you  no  grudge — marry  whom 
you  like.  But  no  meddling  in  my  affairs." 

"Then  you  must  come  and  live  with  me,"  said  Ellen. 
"I  shall  not  leave  you  here  alone." 

"Do  you  really  think  that  I  would  go  and  live  in 
Norman  Douglas'  house?" 

"Why  not?"  cried  Ellen,  half  angrily,  despite  her 
humiliation. 

Rosemary  began  to  laugh. 

"Ellen,  I  thought  you  had  a  sense  of  humour.  Can 
you  see  me  doing  it?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  wouldn't.  His  house  is  big 
enough — you'd  have  your  share  of  it  to  yourself — he 
wouldn't  interfere." 

"Ellen,  the  thing  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Don't 
bring  this  up  again." 

"Then,"  said  Ellen  coldly,  and  determinedly,  "I 
shall  not  marry  him.  I  shall  not  leave  you  here  alone. 
That  is  all  there  is  to  be  said  about  it." 

"Nonsense,  Ellen." 

"It  is  not  nonsense.  It  is  my  firm  decision.  It 
would  be  absurd  for  you  to  think  of  living  here  by 
yourself — a  mile  from  any  other  house.  If  you  won't 
come  with  me  I'll  stay  with  you.  Now,  we  won't 
argue  the  matter,  so  don't  try." 


TWO  STUBBORN  PEOPLE          319 

"I  shall  leave  Norman  to  do  the  arguing,"  said  Rose- 
mary. 

"I'll  deal  with  Norman.  I  can  manage  him.  I 
would  never  have  asked  you  to  give  me  back  my 
promise — never — but  I  had  to  tell  Norman  why  I 
couldn't  marry  him  and  he  said  he  would  ask  you.  I 
couldn't  prevent  him.  You  need  not  suppose  you  are 
the  only  person  in  the  world  who  possesses  self-respect. 
I  never  dreamed  of  marrying  and  leaving  you  here 
alone.  And  you'll  find  I  can  be  as  determined  as  your- 
self." 

Rosemary  turned  away  and  went  into  the  house, 
with  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  Ellen  looked  down  at 
St.  George,  who  had  never  blinked  an  eyelash  or 
stirred  a  whisker  during  the  whole  interview. 

"St.  George,  this  world  would  be  a  dull  place  with- 
out the  men,  I'll  admit,  but  I'm  almost  tempted  to  wish 
there  wasn't  one  of  'em  in  it.  Look  at  the  trouble  and 
bother  they've  made  right  here,  George, — torn  our 
happy  old  life  completely  up  by  the  roots,  Saint.  John 
Meredith  began  it  and  Norman  Douglas  has  finished 
it.  And  now  both  of  them  have  to  go  into  limbo. 
Norman  is  the  only  man  I  ever  met  who  agrees  with 
me  that  the  Kaiser  of  Germany  is  the  most  dangerous 
creature  alive  on  this  earth — and  I  can't  marry  this 
sensible  person  because  my  sister  is  stubborn  and  I'm 
stubborner.  Mark  my  words,  St.  George,  the  minister 
would  come  back  if  she  raised  her  little  finger.  But 


320  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

she  won't,  George — she'll  never  do  it — she  won't  even 
crook  it — and  I  don't  dare  meddle,  Saint.  I  won't 
sulk,  George ;  Rosemary  didn't  sulk,  so  I'm  determined 
I  won't  either,  Saint;  Norman  will  tear  up  the  turf, 
but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  St.  George,  that  all  of 
us  old  fools  must  just  stop  thinking  of  marrying. 
Well,  well,  'despair  is  a  free  man,  hope  is  a  slave,' 
Saint.  So  now  come  into  the  house,  George,  and  I'll 
solace  you  with  a  saucerful  of  cream.  Then  there  will 
be  one  happy  and  contented  creature  on  this  hill  at 
least." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
CARL  Is  —  NOT  —  WHIPPED 


is  something  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you," 
said  Mary  Vance  mysteriously. 

She  and  Faith  and  Una  were  walking  arm  in  arm 
through  the  village,  having  foregathered  at  Mr. 
Flagg's  store.  Una  and  Faith  exchanged  looks  which 
said,  "Now  something  disagreeable  is  coming."  When 
Mary  Vance  thought  she  ought  to  tell  them  things 
there  was  seldom  much  pleasure  in  the  hearing.  They 
often  wondered  why  they  kept  on  liking  Mary  Vance 
—  for  like  her  they  did,  in  spite  of  everything.  To  be 
sure,  she  was  generally  a  stimulating  and  agreeable 
companion.  If  only  she  would  not  have  those  convic- 
tions that  it  was  her  duty  to  tell  them  things  ! 

"Do  you  know  that  Rosemary  West  won't  marry 
your  pa  because  she  thinks  you  are  such  a  wild  lot? 
She's  afraid  she  couldn't  bring  you  up  right  and  so 
she  turned  him  down." 

Una's  heart  thrilled  with  secret  exultation.  She  was 
very  glad  to  hear  that  Miss  West  would  not  marry  her 
father.  But  Faith  was  rather  disappointed. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  everybody's  saying  it.  I  heard  Mrs.  Elliott 
321 


322  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

talking  it  over  with  Mrs.  Doctor.  They  thought  I 
was  too  far  away  to  hear,  but  I've  got  ears  like  a  cat's. 
Mrs.  Elliott  said  she  hadn't  a  doubt  that  Rosemary 
was  afraid  to  try  stepmothering  you  because  you'd  got 
such  a  reputation.  Your  pa  never  goes  up  the  hill 
now.  Neither  does  Norman  Douglas.  Folks  say 
Ellen  has  jilted  him  just  to  get  square  with  him  for 
jilting  her  ages  ago.  But  Norman  is  going  about  de- 
claring he'll  get  her  yet.  And  I  think  you  ought  to 
know  you've  spoiled  your  pa's  match  and  7  think  it's 
a  pity,  for  he's  bound  to  marry  somebody  before  long, 
and  Rosemary  West  would  have  been  the  best  wife  / 
know  of  for  him." 

'You  told  me  all  stepmothers  were  cruel  and 
wicked,"  said  Una. 

"Oh — well,"  said  Mary  rather  confusedly,  "they're 
mostly  awful  cranky,  I  know.  But  Rosemary  West 
couldn't  be  very  mean  to  any  one.  I  tell  you  if  your 
pa  turns  round  and  marries  Emmeline  Drew  you'll 
wish  you'd  behaved  yourselves  better  and  not  fright- 
ened Rosemary  out  of  it.  It's  awful  that  you've  got 
such  a  reputation  that  no  decent  woman'll  marry  your 
pa  on  account  of  you.  Of  course,  /  know  that  half 
the  yarns  that  are  told  about  you  ain't  true.  But  give 
a  dog  a  bad  name.  Why,  some  folks  are  saying  that 
it  was  Jerry  and  Carl  that  threw  the  stones  through 
Mrs.  Stimson's  window  the  other  night  when  it  was 
really  them  two  Boyd  boys.  But  I'm  afraid  it  -was 
Carl  that  put  the  eel  in  old  Mrs.  Carr's  buggy,  though 


CARL  IS— NOT— WHIPPED          323 

I  said  at  first  I  wouldn't  believe  it  until  I'd  better  proof 
than  old  Kitty  Alec's  word.  I  told  Mrs.  Elliott  so 
right  to  her  face." 

"What  did  Carl  do?"  cried  Faith. 

"Well,  they  say — now,  mind,  I'm  only  telling  you 
what  people  say — so  there's  no  use  in  your  blaming 
me  for  it — that  Carl  and  a  lot  of  other  boys  were 
fishing  eels  over  the  bridge  one  evening  last  week. 
Mrs.  Carr  drove  past  in  that  old  rattletrap  buggy  of 
hers  with  the  open  back.  And  Carl  he  just  up  and 
threw  a  big  eel  into  the  back.  When  poor  old  Mrs. 
Carr  was  driving  up  the  hill  by  Ingleside  that  eel 
came  squirming  out  between  her  feet.  She  thought 
it  was  a  snake  and  she  just  give  one  awful  screech  and 
stood  up  and  jumped  out  clean  over  the  wheels.  The 
horse  bolted,  but  it  went  home  and  no  damage  was 
done.  But  Mrs.  Carr  jarred  her  legs  most  terrible, 
and  has  had  nervous  spasms  ever  since  whenever  she 
thinks  of  the  eel.  Say,  it  was  a  rotten  trick  to  play  on 
the  poor  old  soul.  She's  a  decent  body,  if  she  is  as 
queer  as  Dick's  hat  band." 

Faith  and  Una  looked  at  each  other  again.  This 
was  a  matter  for  the  Good-Conduct  Club.  They  would 
not  talk  it  over  with  Mary. 

"There  goes  your  pa,"  said  Mary  as  Mr.  Meredith 
passed  them,  "and  never  seeing  us  no  more'n  if  we 
weren't  here.  Well,  I'm  getting  so's  I  don't  mind  it. 
But  there  are  folks  who  do." 

Mr.  Meredith  had  not  seen  them,  but  he  was  not 


324  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

walking  along  in  his  usual  dreamy  and  abstracted 
fashion.  He  strode  up  the  hill  in  agitation  and  dis- 
tress. Mrs.  Alec  Davis  had  just  told  him  the  story 
of  Carl  and  the  eel.  She  had  been  very  indignant 
about  it.  Old  Mrs.  Carr  was  her  third  cousin.  Mr. 
Meredith  was  more  than  indignant.  He  was  hurt  and 
shocked.  He  had  not  thought  Carl  would  do  anything 
like  this.  He  was  not  inclined  to  be  hard  on  pranks 
of  heedlessness  or  forgetfulness,  but  this  was  different. 
This  had  a  nasty  tang  in  it.  When  he  reached  home 
he  found  Carl  on  the  lawn,  patiently  studying  the 
habits  and  customs  of  a  colony  of  wasps.  Calling  him 
into  the  study  Mr.  Meredith  confronted  him,  with  a 
sterner  face  than  any  of  his  children  had  ever  seen 
before,  and  asked  him  if  the  story  were  true. 

"Yes,"  said  Carl,  flushing,  but  meeting  his  father's 
eye  bravely. 

Mr.  Meredith  groaned.  He  had  hoped  that  there 
had  been  at  least  exaggeration. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  matter,"  he  said. 

"The  boys  were  fishing  for  eels  over  the  bridge," 
said  Carl.  "Link  Drew  had  caught  a  whopper — I 
mean  an  awful  big  one — the  biggest  eel  I  ever  saw. 
He  caught  it  right  at  the  start  and  it  had  been  lying 
in  his  basket  a  long  time,  still  as  still.  I  thought  it 
was  dead,  honest  I  did.  Then  old  Mrs.  Carr  drove 
over  the  bridge  and  she  called  us  all  young  varmints 
and  told  us  to  go  home.  And  we  hadn't  said  a  word 
to  her,  father,  truly.  So  when  she  drove  back  again, 


CARL  IS— NOT— WHIPPED          325 

after  going  to  the  store,  the  boys  dared  me  to  put 
Link's  eel  in  her  buggy.  I  thought  it  was  so  dead  it 
couldn't  hurt  her  and  I  threw  it  in.  Then  the  eel 
came  to  life  on  the  hill  and  we  heard  her  scream  and 
saw  her  jump  out.  I  was  awful  sorry.  That's  all, 
father." 

It  was  not  quite  as  bad  as  Mr.  Meredith  had  feared, 
but  it  was  quite  bad  enough.  "I  must  punish  you, 
Carl,"  he  said  sorrowfully. 

"Yes,  I  know,  father." 

"I — I  must  whip  you." 

Carl  winced.  He  had  never  been  whipped.  Then, 
seeing  how  badly  his  father  felt,  he  said  cheerfully, 

"All  right,  father." 

Mr.  Meredith  misunderstood  his  cheerfulness  and 
thought  him  insensible.  He  told  Carl  to  come  to  the 
study  after  supper,  and  when  the  boy  had  gone  out 
he  flung  himself  into  his  chair  and  groaned  again.  He 
dreaded  the  evening  sevenfold  more  than  Carl  did. 
The  poor  minister  did  not  even  know  what  he  should 
whip  his  boy  with.  What  was  used  to  whip  boys? 
Rods?  Canes?  No,  that  would  be  too  brutal.  A 
limber  switch,  then?  And  he,  John  Meredith,  must 
hie  him  to  the  woods  and  cut  one.  It  was  an  abomi- 
nable thought.  Then  a  picture  presented  itself  un- 
bidden to  his  mind.  He  saw  Mrs.  Carr's  wizened, 
nut-cracker  little  face  at  the  appearance  of  that  re- 
viving eel — he  saw  her  sailing  witch-like  over  the 
buggy  wheels.  Before  he  could  prevent  himself  the 


326  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

minister  laughed.  Then  he  was  angry  with  himself 
and  angrier  still  with  Carl.  He  would  get  that  switch 
at  once — and  it  must  not  be  too  limber,  after  all. 

Carl  was  talking  the  matter  over  in  the  graveyard 
with  Faith  and  Una,  who  had  just  come  home.  They 
were  horrified  at  the  idea  of  his  being  whipped — and 
by  father,  who  had  never  done  such  a  thing !  But  they 
agreed  soberly  that  it  was  just. 

"You  know  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  do,"  sighed 
Faith.  "And  you  never  owned  up  in  the  club." 

"I  forgot,"  said  Carl.  "Besides,  I  didn't  think  any 
harm  came  of  it.  I  didn't  know  she  jarred  her  legs. 
But  I'm  to  be  whipped  and  that  will  make  things 
square." 

"Will  it  hurt — very  much?"  said  Una,  slipping  her 
hand  into  Carl's. 

"Oh,  not  so  much,  I  guess,"  said  Carl  gamely.  "Any- 
how, I'm  not  going  to  cry,  no  matter  how  much  it 
hurts.  It  would  make  father  feel  so  bad,  if  I  did. 
He's  all  cut  up  now.  I  wish  I  could  whip  myself  hard 
enough  and  save  him  doing  it." 

After  supper,  at  which  Carl  had  eaten  little  and  Mr. 
Meredith  nothing  at  all,  both  went  silently  into  the 
study.  The  switch  lay  on  the  table.  Mr.  Meredith 
had  had  a  bad  time  getting  a  switch  to  suit  him.  He 
cut  one,  then  felt  it  was  too  slender.  Carl  had  done 
a  really  indefensible  thing.  Then  he  cut  another — 
it  was  far  too  thick.  After  all,  Carl  had  thought  the 
eel  was  dead.  The  third  one  suited  him  better;  but 


CARL  IS— NOT— WHIPPED          327 

-as  he  picked  it  up  from  the  table  it  seemed  very  thick 
and  heavy, — more  like  a  stick  than  a  switch. 

"Hold  out  your  hand,"  he  said  to  Carl. 

Carl  threw  back  his  head  and  held  out  his  hand 
-unflinchingly.  But  he  was  not  very  old  and  he  could 
not  quite  keep  a  little  fear  out  of  his  eyes.  Mr. 
Meredith  looked  down  into  those  eyes — why,  they  were 
•Cecilia's  eyes — her  very  eyes — and  in  them  was  the 
.selfsame  expression  he  had  once  seen  in  Cecilia's  eyes 
when  she  had  come  to  him  to  tell  him  something  she 
had  been  a  little  afraid  to  tell  him.  Here  were  her 
•eyes  in  Carl's  little,  white  face — and  six  weeks  ago 
he  had  thought,  through  one  endless,  terrible  night, 
that  his  little  lad  was  dying. 

John  Meredith  threw  down  the  switch. 

"Go,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  whip  you." 

Carl  fled  to  the  graveyard,  feeling  that  the  look  on 
liis  father's  face  was  worse  than  any  whipping. 

"Is  it  over  so  soon?"  asked  Faith.  She  and  Una 
liad  been  holding  hands  and  setting  teeth  on  the  Pol- 
lock tombstone. 

"He — he  didn't  whip  me  at  all,"  said  Carl  with  a 
.sob,  "and — I  wish  he  had — and  he's  in  there,  feeling 
just  awful." 

Una  slipped  away.  Her  heart  yearned  to  comfort 
jher  father.  As  noiselessly  as  a  little  gray  mouse  she 
opened  the  study  door  and  crept  in.  The  room  was 
-dark  with  twilight.  Her  father  was  sitting  at  his  desk. 
His  back  was  towards  her — his  head  was  in  his  hands. 


328  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

He  was  talking  to  himself — broken,  anguished  words 
— but  Una  heard — heard  and  understood,  with  the 
sudden  illumination  that  comes  to  sensitive,  un- 
mothered  children.  As  silently  as  she  had  come  in 
she  slipped  out  and  closed  the  door.  John  Meredith 
went  on  talking  out  his  pain  in  what  he  deemed  his 
undisturbed  solitude. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

UNA  VISITS  THE  HILL 

UNA  went  upstairs.  Carl  and  Faith  were  already 
on  their  way  through  the  early  moonlight  to 
Rainbow  Valley,  having  heard  therefrom  the  elfin  lilt 
of  Jerry's  jews-harp  and  having  guessed  that  the 
Blythes  were  there  and  fun  afoot.  Una  had  no  wish 
to  go.  She  sought  her  own  room  first  where  she  sat 
down  on  her  bed  and  had  a  little  cry.  She  did  not 
want  anybody  to  come  in  her  dear  mother's  place. 
She  did  not  want  a  stepmother  who  would  hate  her 
and  make  her  father  hate  her.  But  father  was  so 
desperately  unhappy — and  if  she  could  do  anything 
to  make  him  happier  she  must  do  it.  There  was  only 
one  thing  she  could  do — and  she  had  known  the  mo- 
ment she  had  left  the  study  that  she  must  do  it.  But 
it  was  a  very  hard  thing  to  do. 

After  Una  cried  her  heart  out  she  wiped  her  eyes 
and  went  to  the  spare  room.  It  was  dark  and  rather 
musty,  for  the  blind  had  not  been  drawn  up  nor  the 
window  opened  for  a  long  time.  Aunt  Martha  was 
no  fresh-air  fiend.  But  as  nobody  ever  thought  of 
shutting  a  door  in  the  manse  this  did  not  matter  so 
much,  save  when  some  unfortunate  minister  came  to 

329 


330  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

stay  all  night  and  was  compelled  to  breathe  the  spare 
room  atmosphere. 

There  was  a  closet  in  the  spare  room  and  far  back  in 
the  closet  a  gray  silk  dress  was  hanging.  Una  went 
into  the  closet  and  shut  the  door,  went  down  on  her 
knees  and  pressed  her  face  against  the  soft  silken 
folds.  It  had  been  her  mother's  wedding  dress.  It 
was  still  full  of  a  sweet,  faint,  haunting  perfume,  like 
lingering  love.  Una  always  felt  very  close  to  her 
mother  there — as  if  she  were  kneeling  at  her  feet 
with  head  in  her  lap.  She  went  there  once  in  a  long 
while  when  life  was  too  hard. 

"Mother,"  she  whispered  to  the  gray  silk  gown,  "1 
will  never  forget  you,  mother,  and  I'll  always  love 
you  best.  But  I  have  to  do  it,  mother,  because  father 
is  so  very  unhappy.  I  know  you  wouldn't  want  him 
to  be  unhappy.  And  I  will  be  very  good  to  her, 
mother,  and  try  to  love  her,  even  if  she  is  like  Mary 
Vance  said  stepmothers  always  were." 

Una  carried  some  fine,  spiritual  strength  away  from 
her  secret  shrine.  She  slept  peacefully  that  night  with 
the  tear  stains  still  glistening  on  her  sweet,  serious, 
little  face. 

The  next  afternoon  she  put  on  her  best  dress  and 
hat.  They  were  shabby  enough.  Every  other  little 
girl  in  the  Glen  had  new  clothes  that  summer  except 
Faith  and  Una.  Mary  Vance  had  a  lovely  dress  of 
white  embroidered  lawn,  with  scarlet  silk  sash  and 
shoulder  bows.  But  to-day  Una  did  not  mind  her 


UNA  VISITS  THE  HILL  331 

shabbiness.  She  only  wanted  to  be  very  neat.  She 
washed  her  face  carefully.  She  brushed  her  black  hair 
until  it  was  as  smooth  as  satin.  She  tied  her  shoelaces 
carefully,  having  first  sewed  up  two  runs  in  her  one 
pair  of  good  stockings.  She  would  have  liked  to 
black  her  shoes,  but  she  could  not  find  any  blacking. 
Finally,  she  slipped  away  from  the  manse,  down 
through  Rainbow  Valley,  up  through  the  whispering 
woods,  and  out  to  the  road  that  ran  past  the  house 
on  the  hill.  It  was  quite  a  long  walk  and  Una  was 
tired  and  warm  when  she  got  there. 

She  saw  Rosemary  West  sitting  under  a  tree  in  the 
garden  and  stole  past  the  dahlia  beds  to  her.  Rose- 
mary had  a  book  in  her  lap,  but  she  was  gazing  afar 
across  the  harbour  and  her  thoughts  were  sorrowful 
enough.  Life  had  not  been  pleasant  lately  in  the 
house  on  the  hill.  Ellen  had  not  sulked — Ellen  had 
been  a  brick.  But  things  can  be  felt  that  are  never  said 
and  at  times  the  silence  between  the  two  women  was 
intolerably  eloquent.  All  the  many  familiar  things 
that  had  once  made  life  sweet  had  a  flavour  of  bitter- 
ness now.  Norman  Douglas  made  periodical  irrup- 
tions also,  bullying  and  coaxing  Ellen  by  turns.  It 
would  end,  Rosemary  believed,  by  his  dragging  Ellen 
off  with  him  some  day,  and  Rosemary  felt  that  she 
would  be  almost  glad  when  it  happened.  Existence 
would  be  horribly  lonely  then,  but  it  would  be  no 
longer  charged  with  dynamite. 


332  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

She  was  roused  from  her  unpleasant  reverie  by  a 
timid  little  touch  on  her  shoulder.  Turning,  she  saw 
Una  Meredith. 

"Why,  Una,  dear,  did  you  walk  up  here  in  all  this 
heat?" 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  "I  came  to — I  came  to" — 

But  she  found  it  very  hard  to  say  what  she  had 
come  to  do.  Her  voice  failed — her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Why,  Una,  little  girl,  what  is  the  trouble?  Don't 
be  afraid  to  tell  me." 

Rosemary  put  her  arm  around  the  thin  little  form 
and  drew  the  child  close  to  her.  Her  eyes  were  very 
beautiful — her  touch  so  tender  that  Una  found  cour- 
age. 

"I  came — to  ask  you — to  marry  father,"  she 
gasped. 

Rosemary  was  silent  for  a  moment  from  sheer 
dumbfounderment.  She  stared  at  Una  blankly. 

"Oh,  don't  be  angry,  please,  dear  Miss  West,"  said 
Una,  pleadingly.  "You  see,  everybody  is  saying  that 
you  wouldn't  marry  father  because  we  are  so  bad.  He 
is  very  unhappy  about  it.  So  I  thought  I  would  come 
and  tell  you  that  we  are  never  bad  on  purpose.  And 
if  you  will  only  marry  father  we  will  all  try  to  be 
good  and  do  just  what  you  tell  us.  I'm  sure  you  won't 
have  any  trouble  with  us.  Please,  Miss  West." 

Rosemary  had  been  thinking  rapidly.  Gossipping 
surmise,  she  saw,  had  put  this  mistaken  idea  into 


UNA  VISITS  THE  HILL  333 

"Una's  mind.  She  must  be  perfectly  frank  and  sincere 
with  the  child. 

"Una,  dear,"  she  said  softly.  "It  isn't  because  of 
you  poor  little  souls  that  I  cannot  be  your  father's 
wife.  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  You  are  not 
bad — I  never  supposed  you  were.  There — there  was 
another  reason  altogether,  Una." 

"Don't  you  like  father?"  asked  Una,  lifting  re- 
proachful eyes.  "Oh,  Miss  West,  you  don't  know 
how  nice  he  is.  I'm  sure  he'd  make  you  a  good  hus- 
band." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  perplexity  and  distress 
Rosemary  couldn't  help  a  twisted,  little  smile. 

"Oh,  don't  laugh,  Miss  West,"  Una  cried  passion- 
ately. "Father  feels  dreadful  about  it." 

"I  think  you're  mistaken,  dear,"  said  Rosemary. 

"I'm  not.  I'm  sure  I'm  not.  Oh,  Miss  West, 
father  was  going  to  whip  Carl  yesterday — Carl  had 
been  naughty — and  father  couldn't  do  it  because  you 
see  he  had  no  practice  in  whipping.  So  when  Carl 
came  out  and  told  us  father  felt  so  bad,  I  slipped  into 
the  study  to  see  if  I  could  help  him — he  likes  me  to 
comfort  him,  Miss  West — and  he  didn't  hear  me  come 
in  and  I  heard  what  he  was  saying.  I'll  tell  you,  Miss 
West,  if  you'll  let  me  whisper  it  in  your  ear." 

Una  whispered  earnestly.  Rosemary's  face  turned 
crimson.  So  John  Meredith  still  cared.  He  hadn't 
changed  his  mind.  And  he  must  care  intensely  if  he 
had  said  that — care  more  than  she  had  ever  supposed 


334  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

he  did.  She  sat  still  for  a  moment,  stroking  Una's 
hair.  Then  she  said, 

"Will  you  take  a  little  letter  from  me  to  your  father, 
Una?" 

"Oh,  are  you  going  to  marry  him,  Miss  West?" 
asked  Una  eagerly. 

"Perhaps — if  he  really  wants  me  to,"  said  Rose- 
mary, blushing  again. 

"I'm  glad — I'm  glad,"  said  Una  bravely.  Then  she 
looked  up,  with  quivering  lips.  "Oh,  Miss  West,  you 
won't  turn  father  against  us — you  won't  make  him 
hate  us,  will  you?"  she  said  beseechingly. 

Rosemary  stared  agaio 

"Una  Meredith!  Do  you  think  I  would  do  such  a 
thing  ?  Whatever  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head  ?" 

"Mary  Vance  said  stepmothers  were  all  like  that — 
and  that  they  all  hated  their  stepchildren  and  made 
their  father  hate  them — she  said  they  just  couldn't 
help  it — just  being  stepmothers  made  them  like  that" — 

"You  poor  child!  And  yet  you  came  up  here  and 
asked  me  to  marry  your  father  because  you  wanted  to 
make  him  happy?  You're  a  darling — a  heroine — as 
Ellen  would  say,  you're  a  brick.  Now  listen  to  me 
very  closely,  dearest.  Mary  Vance  is  a  silly  little  girl 
who  doesn't  know  very  much  and  she  is  dreadfully 
mistaken  about  some  things.  I  would  never  dream 
of  trying  to  turn  your  father  against  you.  I  would 
love  you  all  dearly.  I  don't  wast*,  to  take  your  own 
mother's  place — she  mus*  always  have  that  in  your 


UNA  VISITS  THE  HILL  335 

hearts.  But  neither  have  I  any  intention  of  being  a 
.stepmother.  I  want  to  be  your  friend  and  helper  and 
chum.  Don't  you  think  that  would  be  nice,  Una — if 
you  and  Faith  and  Carl  and  Jerry  could  just  think 
of  me  as  a  good  jolly  chum — a  big  older  sister  ?" 

"Oh,  it  would  be  lovely,"  cried  Una,  with  a  trans- 
figured face.  She  flung  her  arms  impulsively  round 
Rosemary's  neck.  She  was  so  happy  that  she  felt  as 
if  she  could  fly  on  wings. 

"Do  the  others — do  Faith  and  the  boys  have  the 
same  idea  you  had  about  stepmothers?" 

"No.  Faith  never  believed  Mary  Vance.  I  was 
dreadfully  foolish  to  believe  her,  either.  Faith  loves 
you  already — she  has  loved  you  ever  since  poor  Adam 
was  eaten.  And  Jerry  and  Carl  will  think  it  is  jolly. 
Oh,  Miss  West,  when  you  come  to  live  with  us,  will 
you — could  you — teach  me  to  cook — a  little — and  sew 
— and — and — and  do  things?  I  don't  know  anything. 
I  won't  be  much  trouble — I'll  try  to  learn  fast." 

"Darling,  I'll  teach  you  and  help  you  all  I  can.  Now, 
you  won't  say  a  word  to  anybody  about  this,  will  you 
• — not  even  to  Faith,  until  your  father  himself  tells 
you  you  may  ?  And  you'll  stay  and  have  tea  with  me  ?" 

"Oh,  thank  you — but — but — I  think  I'd  rather  go 
light  back  and  take  the  letter  to  father,"  faltered  Una. 
"You  see,  he'll  be  glad  that  much  sooner,  Miss  West." 

"I  see,"  said  Rosemary.  She  went  to  the  house, 
wrote  a  note  and  gave  it  to  Una.  When  that  small 
damsel  had  run  off,  a  palpitating  bundle  of  happiness, 


336  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Rosemary  went  to  Ellen,  who  was  shelling  peas  on  the 
back  porch. 

"Ellen,"  she  said,  "Una  Meredith  has  just  been 
here  to  ask  me  to  marry  her  father." 

Ellen  looked  up  and  read  her  sister's  face. 

"And  you're  going  to  ?"  she  said. 

"It's  quite  likely." 

Ellen  went  on  shelling  peas  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
she  suddenly  put  her  hands  up  to  her  own  face.  There 
were  tears  in  her  black-browed  eyes. 

"I — I  hope  we'll  all  be  happy,"  she  said  between 
a  sob  and  a  laugh. 

Down  at  the  manse  Una  Meredith,  warm,  rosy, 
triumphant,  marched  boldly  into  her  father's  study 
and  laid  a  letter  on  the  desk  before  him.  His  pale 
face  flushed  as  he  saw  the  clear,  fine,  handwriting  he 
knew  so  well.  He  opened  the  letter.  It  was  very 
short — but  he  shed  twenty  years  as  he  read  it.  Rose- 
mary asked  him  if  he  could  meet  her  that  evening  at 
sunset  by  the  spring  in  Rainbow  Valley. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
"LET  THE  PIPER  COME" 


"  A  ^^  so>"  sa^  ^*ss  Cornelia,  "tne  double  wed- 
JL\.  ding  is  to  be  sometime  about  the  middle  of 
this  month." 

There  was  a  faint  chill  in  the  air  of  the  early  Sep- 
tember evening,  so  Anne  had  lighted  her  ever  ready 
fire  of  driftwood  in  the  big  living  room,  and  she  and 
Miss  Cornelia  basked  in  its  fairy  flicker. 

"It  is  so  delightful  —  especially  in  regard  to  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Rosemary,"  said  Anne.  "I'm  as  happy 
in  the  thought  of  it,  as  I  was  when  I  was  getting  mar- 
ried myself.  I  felt  exactly  like  a  bride  again  last 
evening  when  I  was  up  on  the  hill  seeing  Rosemary's 
trousseau." 

"They  tell  me  her  things  are  fine  enough  for  a 
princess,"  said  Susan  from  a  shadowy  corner  where 
she  was  cuddling  her  brown  boy.  "I  have  been  in- 
vited up  to  see  them  also  and  I  intend  to  go  some  eve- 
ning. I  understand  that  Rosemary  is  to  wear  white 
silk  and  a  veil,  but  Ellen  is  to  be  married  in  navy  blue. 
I  have  no  doubt,  Mrs.  Dr.  dear,  that  that  is  very 
sensible  of  her,  but  for  my  own  part  I  have  always 
felt  that  if  I  were  ever  married  I  would  prefer  the 
white  and  the  veil,  as  being  more  bride-like." 

337 


338  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

A  vision  of  Susan  in  "white  and  a  veil"  presented 
itself  before  Anne's  inner  vision  and  was  almost  too 
much  for  her. 

"As  for  Mr.  Meredith,"  said  Miss  Cornelia,  "even 
his  engagement  has  made  a  different  man  of  him.  He 
isn't  half  so  dreamy  and  absent-minded,  believe  me. 
I  was  so  relieved  when  I  heard  that  he  had  decided  to 
close  the  manse  and  let  the  children  visit  round  while 
he  was  away  on  his  honeymoon.  If  he  had  left  them 
and  old  Aunt  Martha  there  alone  for  a  month  I  should 
have  expected  to  wake  every  morning  and  see  the 
place  burned  down." 

"Aunt  Martha  and  Jerry  are  coming  here,"  said 
Anne.  "Carl  is  going  to  Elder  Clow's.  I  haven't 
heard  where  the  girls  are  going." 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  take  them,"  said  Miss  Cornelia. 
"Of  course  I  was  glad  to,  but  Mary  would  have  given 
me  no  peace  till  I  asked  them  any  way.  The  Ladies' 
Aid  is  going  to  clean  the  manse  from  top  to  bottom 
before  the  bride  and  groom  come  back,  and  Norman 
Douglas  has  arranged  to  fill  the  cellar  with  vegetables. 
Nobody  ever  saw  or  heard  anything  quite  like  Norman 
Douglas  these  days,  believe  me.  He's  so  tickled  that 
he's  going  to  marry  Ellen  West  after  wanting  her  all 
his  life.  If  7  was  Ellen — but  then,  I'm  not,  and  if 
she  is  satisfied  I  can  very  well  be.  I  heard  her  say 
years  ago  when  she  was  a  schoolgirl  that  she  didn't 
want  a  tame  puppy  for  a  husband.  There's  nothing 
tame  about  Norman,  believe  me." 


"LET  THE  PIPER  COME"  339 

The  sun  was  setting  over  Rainbow  Valley.  The 
pond  was  wearing  a  wonderful  tissue  of  purple  and 
gold  and  green  and  crimson.  A  faint  blue  haze  rested 
on  the  eastern  hill,  over  which  a  great,  pale,  round 
moon  was  just  floating  up  like  a  silver  bubble. 

They  were  all  there,  squatted  in  the  little  open  glade 
— Faith  and  Una,  Jerry  and  Carl,  Jem  and  Walter, 
Nan  and  Di,  and  Mary  Vance.  They  had  been  having 
a  special  celebration,  for  it  would  be  Jem's  last  evening 
in  Rainbow  Valley.  On  the  morrow  he  would  leave 
for  Charlottetown  to  attend  Queen's  Academy.  Their 
charmed  circle  would  be  broken;  and,  in  spite  of  the 
jollity  of  their  little  festival,  there  was  a  hint  of  sor- 
row in  every  gay  young  heart. 

"See — there  is  a  great  golden  palace  over  there  in 
the  sunset,"  said  Walter,  pointing.  "Look  at  the  shin- 
ing towers — and  the  crimson  banners  streaming  from 
them.  Perhaps  a  conqueror  is  riding  home  from 
battle — and  they  are  hanging  them  out  to  do  honour 
to  him." 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  had  the  old  days  back  again,"  ex- 
claimed Jem.  "I'd  love  to  be  a  soldier — a  great, 
triumphant  general.  I'd  give  everything  to  see  a  big 
battle." 

Well,  Jem  was  to  be  a  soldier  and  see  a  greater 
battle  than  had  ever  been  fought  in  the  world ;  but  that 
was  as  yet  far  in  the  future;  and  the  mother,  whose 
first-born  son  he  was,  was  wont  to  look  on  her  boys 
and  thank  God  that  the  "brave  days  of  old,"  which 


340  RAINBOW  VALLEY 

Jem  longed  for,  were  gone  forever,  and  that  never 
would  it  be  necessary  for  the  sons  of  Canada  to  ride 
forth  to  battle  "for  the  ashes  of  their  fathers  and  the 
temples  of  their  gods." 

The  shadow  of  the  Great  Conflict  had  not  yet  made 
felt  any  forerunner  of  its  chill.  The  lads  who  were 
to  fight,  and  perhaps  fall,  on  the  fields  of  France  and 
Flanders,  Gallipoli  and  Palestine,  were  still  roguish 
schoolboys  with  a  fair  life  in  prospect  before  them: 
the  girls  whose  hearts  were  to  be  wrung  were  yet  fair 
little  maidens  a-star  with  hopes  and  dreams. 

Slowly  the  banners  of  the  sunset  city  gave  up  their 
crimson  and  gold;  slowly  the  conqueror's  pageant 
faded  out.  Twilight  crept  over  the  valley  and  the 
little  group  grew  silent.  Walter  had  been  reading 
again  that  day  in  his  beloved  book  of  myths  and  he 
remembered  how  he  had  once  fancied  the  Pied  Piper 
coming  down  the  valley  on  an  evening  just  like  this. 

He  began  to  speak  dreamily,  partly  because  he 
wanted  to  thrill  his  companions  a  little,  partly  because 
something  apart  from  him  seemed  to  be  speaking 
through  his  lips. 

"The  Piper  is  coming  nearer,"  he  said,  "he  is  nearer 
than  he  was  that  evening  I  saw  him  before.  His  long, 
shadowy  cloak  is  blowing  around  him.  He  pipes — he 
pipes — and  we  must  follow — Jem  and  Carl  and  Jerry 
and  I — round  and  round  the  world.  Listen — listen — 
can't  you  hear  his  wild  music  ?" 

The  girls  shivered. 


"LET  THE  PIPER  COME"  341 

"You  know  you're  only  pretending,"  protested  Mary 
Vance,  "and  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  You  make  it  too 
real.  I  hate  that  old  Piper  of  yours." 

But  Jem  sprang  up  with  a  gay  laugh.  He  stood  on 
a  little  hillock,  tall  and  splendid,  with  his  open  brow 
and  his  fearless  eyes.  There  were  thousands  like  him 
all  over  the  land  of  the  maple. 

"Let  the  Piper  come  and  welcome,"  he  cried,  waving 
his  hand.  'Til  follow  him  gladly  round  and  round 
the  world." 

THE  END 


University  of  California 

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